I hear whispered words of defeat
in a voice made of
Whiskey
and
Blunt Smoke
The voice slurs it's words together into
an unbroken chain of pessimism
Slowly these chains
that have been conjured from
thin air
start to curl around my legs locking them in place
As the voice slows down and becomes
more concise
my bindings rise up
Now you see me,
wrapped head-to-toe
not moving
I am surrounded by my own doubts,
Weighted down with my own
choices
I open my mouth,
Intending to use my Words
like Blades
and cut through these chains
when I realize the voice is my own
and I am trapped in a cage of
my own devising