Too much. Stimuli.  
The voices. The sounds. The smells. The people. The eyes. The looks. The energy. The words. The preaches. The beliefs. The calls. The gestures. The monologues. The appointments. The requirements. The social norms. The values. The money. The rules. The expectations. The phones. The computers. The letters. The texts. The tasks. The duties. The online world. The offline world. The news. The fake news. The media. The cars. The cyclists. The trains. The planes. The traffic. The food. The drinks. The wind. The sun. The cold. The heat. The rain. The worries. The hope. The plans. The memories. The images in my head. The voices in my head. The heart stings. The cramps. The aching. The shivering. The sweating. The pain. The passing. The change. The rhythm. The routine. The hate. The love. The lies. The truth. The spending. The pretending. With no ending.
Too many people. Too many things. Too many sounds. Too many visuals. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. Too many notions.
Too many.
Too much.
To take.
No more.

Reaching from my bed,
disguised as safe space,
gradually releasing its poison.

Paralyzing my mind, body and soul
and inexorably imprisoning my whole.

Eventually dropping out of bed,
I continue my daily walk to the toilet.
A gnomish little space.
No windows,
no colours,
no sink,
no outside world.
Merely three walls and a squeaking door.
Isolation at its finest.

Progressing to the kitchen,
I find a room filled with triggers and false comfort,
followed by attacks of anxiety, loneliness and failure.

Eventually ceasing back
to my seemingly soothing safe space.

Yielding into reoccurring patterns
of soul *******.

Drowning in feelings of guilt and self-harm.

Mirror mirror on the wall,
who is the falsest of them all?

It seems to be,
it must be me.