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