Ineffectual

Eyes calculate as I dance
A sliding to and fro
On a cold, lifeless scale.

Excellent progress in sterile white and metal.

Forward, and forward
And forward.
With identical scenery.

And without ever really
Going. It's only really pacing.

So much movement and chaos
Sewing the illusion
Of travel and growth.

Just fine. Great work!

(For all the presumably surpassed
Ladder rungs
And conquered fears)
I feel like yesterday
Is simply feigning defeat
Deep within me
(Biding its sinister time.)

And this apoplectic progress
Is simply a charade.
Fooling even (especially) me.

Maybe with all of this forced
And clumsy-hopeful shuffling
I'll fall back to where I never left.

Failure.

A/N: I wrote it about something in particular (or a few somethings), but that's not really important. It's fairly adaptable to different situations. Thanks for reading!