Is This Consciousness?

I cannot comprehend myself, This is too much to bear, Everyday I'm wonder, how did I get there? Sifting through thoughts, ideas, and morals, Thinking I sound so unimportant, This might be my creative end, but then Here I am, weaving storylines again, There seems to be no end to where it all begins, Then again, are these stories real, or just pretend? I sit here day and night, Hoping to be free, But these powerful chains have a hold on me There’s no escaping, that's not how it goes, I end up alone, and the story lengthens furthermore Trapped in my thoughts, just on my lonesome, With no help, nobody seems to hear my loathesome Storylines I keep, locked away in a secret safe, from all who try to read my face, but Is this the end? I think not, it always continues ‘til the bend So I walk and I talk, conversing with others, Always speaking fluff and flubber, Not thinking twice, not taking glances, in a world where they are always fancied, Yet they seem to be entranced with the stifled conversations we have, Extremely tiresome and kind of drab, I look out of my eyes, forward direction, making contact, But there’s no reason to keep track, Of the things I say or do, for there will be another storyline soon, Starting when I arise at noon, but I always wonder, Will my creativity emerge soon? Along with that, my self IQ?