The Dark Individualist

My inspiration yesterday is the chain around my neck today.
I exhaustingly compare and criticise myself until I am silent.
If I cannot be as good, I will not be at all.
I despair, I mourn, I imagine the what ifs, I bemoan the reality, I compare, I criticise, I mistrust, I hurt, I fear, I worry, I write.
I am lost and I tell people where.
I am hurt and I write down why.
I feel alone and I type for others to join me.
When I am happy, I do not spread the joy.
The negatives govern me.
They are familiar and it is easy to sit in the dark.
There is sunlight inside but it cannot get out and I spread darkness wherever I am.
The shadows overcome others and I watch in despair as my presence destroys.
I am powerless against it; this drowning feeling of hopelessness again.
I am The Artist; The Individualist; The Inspirer.
I feel featureless; ordinary; and bland.
I am expressive, dramatic, self-absorbed and temperamental.
I drown in the dramatic expressions of my temperamental self.
This clinical analysis of self defeats me.
Clarifying my fears, it is true what I crave.
It is true what I fear, and the proximity of my anxieties is heavy on the air around me.
But there is hope in the analysis.