Dementia.

Comedy is a comforting mask that helps me cope when I am encompassed by darkness that infects my world and paints it black.
I am imprisoned by my own thoughts, anxiety reveals its ugliness cheapening any sense of accomplishment that I might have.
I grip reality, desperately, so I am not pulled into the burning inferno underground that threatens to devour me whole; it is my personal Hell.
I do my best to embody my interpretation of normal, attempt to see things in a positive light despite my knowledge that my glass is broken, not half full.
My smile is as carefully constructed as a house of cards, one wrong move and all of me comes crashing down to the ground.
Tears well in the corner of my eyes as I question why but know that God works in mysterious ways. When will my sadness be replaced by my life that permanently remains on hold.
I wish I could hit rewind and return to the point where roads diverged;
I would choose wisely this time instead of chasing petulant dreams that have led me astray.
A wasted life, unfulfilled resulted in my idle mind.
Fragile paper heart of mine that rips apart time after time, my hard exterior guards shatter so often that they are scarred.
Tired of being a perpetual work in progress, I really need change like the Earth needs rain.
Resigned but resolute I will try to be resilient although it's become an arms race, imperative that I finally prove that I am brilliant.