Why do I choose to suffer my freedom?
   Is it familiarity? A self-created religion?

I bind myself, to myself, using my own hands.
  I struggle to look through my own fingers.

Is it because I can't see? Am I in a dream?
  Where is the edge? Where is the seam?

I pretend to be distressed and myself believe
  Its all I've ever known, the stories of someone.

I carry on, holding tight, writing more lies
  A twisted *******, an inversion of life.

I catch glimpses of release, the gaps in my hands
  Yet as soon as I forget, I go back in.

How can you fight something you've created?
  How destroy the already annihilated?

Nothing but questions, answers are worthless.
  Nothing makes sense, not even these verses.