Circular Motion

Are these threads made to reach down
And tangle around frustrated heart strings?
Or is thoughtlessness just mere emptiness
As this remains to you?

Dreadful to think eyelids lay heavy
As my only source of inspiration brings pen
To paper once more,
Am I hopeless in endeavor?
Do I fail at every turning?

How can such imperfection be my only target
In this endless road I'm treading?
Taking one step forward and two steps back,
Odd how the only thing making life a chore has
To be this, has been this and will be this.

Strange how I can feel so much about so little,
And make it last a lifetime in my imagination,
Each passing thought on the subject a crushing weight that
I can't lift and is impossible to crawl from under.

Weird that memories flash from more than one time
Sparking blackouts in sight and feeling.

To tear and rip would be too easy, but to tug
With invisible arms is far worse, though you don't realise it.

Matter is not what I'd give, only my own stupid frustrations,
that get concocted in stale cauldrons, locked in dusty
poisoned halls.

Hard to know I've seen this place, too much for far too long,
No change or defined feeling, just the longing sense of truth,
How can another sleepless night have left me in dilemma, while
each one that took place before brought no willing conclusion.

An eerie sense of truth and it's
So dreadful, odd and strange
That I imagined you myself.