I don’t exist in the real world.

I have a body, and hands, and feet,

like everyone else,

but I don’t exist that sweet.

 

Ingrained deeper than the pit of mind,

residing in the marrow of my bones,

an inhabitant that lurks,

a pathogen that roams.

 

I am not depressed.

I grin each day, and mean it,

but beneath that shy facade,

sprawls perpetual, a skit:

 

“I wish.”

 

I wish I was good.

I wish I studied more.

I wish I was smarter.

I wish.

 

Society directs this show, 

and I as student act,

dancing in Shakespearean tune,

another endless track.

 

My demon does not cry,

with me,

but watches from within.

The goading never stops,

and it won’t until I win.

 

Time is running out,

what happened to forever?

I used to ride eternity,

but now I seldom ever.

 

I’m trapped on a whirring train,

the plastic toy kind,

with ringed infinity tracks,

and wheels that seize me blind.

 

My voice is in there somewhere,

I know it is,

because I’ve heard it.

It’s stentorian, and witty, a bold molasses kiss.

 

“I wish” will disappear,

vanquish into nothing,

scattered like pieces to a jigsaw,

and I will find that something.

 

I don’t exist in the real world- yet,

my face has yet to show,

but my demon’s gone forevermore,

and pretty soon you’ll know.