Inner Angst

There is no solace in the kindness of words,
Nor the darkness of night, nor the coolness of dawn.
I am inconsolable: nothing can touch me,
No one can reach me, feel the intensity of my pain.
I am alone, as I have been hence and will be still.

The truth is myth. The lie is the status quo,
the reality of the world where you and I belong -
Nothing is real. Everything is a tall tale weaved,
very intricately, to give you faux comfort and sympathy.
But the truth is not what it claims to be - be alert.

And yet I find myself believing one truth - that one
Which I know to be a reality, an existing idea:
I am alone. I prescribe to the idea of loneliness
As if it were my anesthaesia - my way to avoid
the painful lashes from the whip of rejection.

I find no solace in all things good - they are my truths,
Myths that exist to keep me on alert.
The lie is the status quo, and I, the victim
whose ideals have been toyed with by fate.
Yet the truth is all I have to give,

And the rest of the world reads it as a lie -
I find no solace in that.