The feeling isn’t nothing

Just deeply unbecoming

Your waking hours are spent ensnared, you’re sleeping through percussions

These instincts you’re entrusting

They feel like a McGuffin

You wander through a crowd but can’t be seen when you’re in public

Of the emotions you’ve been gifted

The sorrow’s looking distant

But glee is just as far away, and woefully consistent

Your nervousness, a figment

Your courage, insufficient

A fatal blow could spin you, but it feels just like a pin prick

A feast is being offered

A snack is what you wanted

The world is grey today, but doesn’t matter if you’re thoughtless

And if you’re being honest

What’s keeping you from progress

Is that feeling something new, means you destroy it in the process