People are here,
What is this I fear?
Longing to touch,
But knowing I don't have much.

The figures disappear before my eyes,
I can't face alone my life's demise!
So I run after the distant shadows;
Nothing else matters.

Pushing and shoving,
I need to reach something!
Hands grasping for anything,
But reaching nothing.

Fear spreads through my soul,
What will fill this black hole?
My run turns to a desperate jog,
But nothing clears the dense fog.

People tell me I'm a fool,
They tell me to chill and just be cool.
What do they know of my despair?
They just assume and think they judge me fair.

The feeling returns with great animosity,
Showing me images of much atrocity.
Isn't this what it's all about?
Angry words only coming out as a pout.

The fear is very real;
It's the only thing I can feel!
Smothering me like a damp cloth,
Surrounding me like an ever-present moth.

There is no cure for my disease;
Nothing to put my heart at ease.
I run to no avail.
Every time I try, I fail.

What is my illness, you ask?
To answer is quite a task.
My disease is not merely one,
But many wrapped in a tight bun.

I suffer from fear and loathing;
Pride and boasting;
Embarrassment and depression;
Anger and regression.

What is my illness?
The problem is with the stillness.
Why do I always feel phony?
Why am I always so lonely...?