You run and run, You run from your friends, You run from your family. Your guardians, well-wishers And from yourself. Chained to a chair, you Run in your head. Legs tied to a post, you Run from wars that haven't Yet begun. You re-imagine possibilities To run from the past. Hold on to dystopias to Take your mind off the future. Can't talk to anyone openly Fearing exposal of your Vulnerabilities, in a denial Mode constantly - winning Arguments with yourself That are imaginary. You thought you wrote for The love of it. But sometimes You sink in a condemnation that Screams a fake sense of Achievement that comes with Writing. Which you need for The gratification of the 'self' That seems to be dying.