In a puddle of chaos I stand,
Sinking like in a marshy swampland,
The race of life, with its murky goals,
Pains my already befuddled soul.
Isolated, I seem to feel in a crowd,
Breathless, like trapped in a shroud,
Some days are silkier than others,
Not that I am given any druthers.
A lankiness pervades in all my fears,
Downing whiskey, whilst drowning in tears
Razor sharp bite the days seem to be,
Mouthing a prayer, I try to flee.