Driven

I have always dreamt of being driven, decisive and consumed.
Ready to take any action to cauterize our wounds.
Prepared, relentless, immovable and full of holy fire,
Happy to face the terrible, willing to conspire.

I have always dreamt of being driven, assuming I was not.
I realize now how driven I am, but not by what I sought.
There is a force ever powerful, that dictates my whole life.
Pulls me around like a terrified pup, extinguishes the light.

It reminds me every single day about what I have to lose.
It loves to keep me up at night with its elaborate ruse.
It pulses like a sore sometimes, eyes wetted with fear.
It sometimes consumes everything, dominates the year.

Terror is the face of my entire motivation.
It makes me question powerful trust, and soils divination.
It's embarrassing, relentless, destroys all in its wake.
It sets the stage for tragedy, and unending mistake.

Stronger then any fantasy, sexual, perfect, complex.
The ones that press every button, answer each prospect.
More powerful then all of this, each and all and more,
is the fantasy of freedom - to be fearless to my core.

I know its real, its possible, many a glimpse I've seen.
Distracted by engagement, recalled lucidity.
It is the way I have always coped with the unending weight,
consumed myself with strategy, puzzles, and debate.

My friends always wonder why I can never stop, relax.
Asking all too much of them to constantly distract,
My moving frame, always doing something to survive,
If I stand still it gains control, dominates the mind.

I understand that it has done me some good in the end,
If it was purposeless would I be here to attend?
Yet, still I know it is only a shell of a rusted, used up tool.
Demands my attention at all times as it renders me a fool.

It has a hand in every pot, it unwinds every spool.
In hours of need it tends to be particularly cruel.
Blinds me to dedication, breaks each and ever rule.
Empties me of all energy, steals all of my fuel.

Anxiety always sounds to me like such a tiny word.
Says nothing of paralysis, of pain, and how absurd -
It is to live inside your head, all your waking days
Hiding from your ancient pain in such creative ways.

Even in this moment now, it moves my wrist and hand.
writing this poem currently, to make you understand.
That I am indeed driven, and I don't know what to do.
Im here to say forgive me, see part of me in you.