Inadequacy creeps in, the fear of falling short,
Yearning for an ideal that others desire,
Expressions concealed, sometimes biting, often silent,
A jumble of chaos, resistant to adapt, disarray prevails.

Judgments fly, fingers pointing at an odd soul,
"Her clothes, her words, a peculiar spectacle,"
Yet, I strive to blend with the expected norm,
Matching attire, mirroring attitudes, a mask I adorn.

Refusing to conform to society's mold,
Resisting the pressure to be what they uphold,
Is it my fault if my solace lies in unconventional ways?
Excessive pills, conversations with self in lonely days.

On the brink of a spiral, a path toward the dark,
Is it a sin to seek relief from atelophobia's mark?
The struggle continues, a journey uncertain,
The grip of this fear, an enduring burden.


© camvickbone