I feel like I’m not doing enough

That I don’t deserve the status to which I do not belong

A prestige whose glossy bar far exceeds my grasp

In a plane whose very essence does not seem to align with my own

That I wander aimlessly in the wake

of the relentless chronologist's march

the tick tick ticking

of paths rapidly closing

of opportunities missed and chances forgotten

gone gone gone

her heartless march continues without falter

encroaching upon the inferno held within

the furnace of my soul 

the warmth of my hearth

the flame of passion that lights the way

wavering wavering wavering

until it flickers

And its ashy smoke fails to rise

the umbra foreboding  

the despondence of the frozen

the blizzard of the sorrow of lost hope

as the merciless ice obscures my view

I stumble about until I’ll invariably fall

and splat onto my face

tears forming without resolve

 

there is the sense

that the path ahead is shrouded in darkness

Impermeable to my agape eyes

frosted over with the extract of regret

fumbling about without knowledge 

timing

I feel inadequate in a way that shrouds my form

A blurriness that obscures what lies before

me 

a blur that distorts and warps my form

A blast of wind that throws off my balance

the clarity  once given by the blazing inferno of passion

eradicated through the frigid sin of doubt

emulsified by the fault of anxiety

defenestrated by the death of hope

The impostor’s form taking the vestige of my own

taking over my crystalizing mind with its twisted intentions

 

what

is there

to be said

that hasn’t already

been formed

what 

is there 

to be said

that isn’t 

already there

what is there

to be said

that

 

the guilt doesn’t

 

corrupt

 

the guilt of

 

yearning for an existence 

 

not built off of the incessant harvesting

 

of the marrow of my lifeblood

 

of days defined merely by drudgery and unfulfilling work

of stifling that fire within my form 

of a school whose work never ends

where rest is guilt and not freely taken

 

Is there an existence without this guilt 

Will I ever be enough, 

Do enough?

The flameless impostor whispers to herself, choked by the wind

no, no clearly not

the flickering of the void encompassing her form

the frostbite of the depths consuming the light that remains

the torrent of regret forcing tremorous shivers

 

But the light that remains in the depths 

Struggling to keep hold

That bright, brilliant engulfing flame of love

and above all else, passion

That, too, remains

The flame fed by knowledge

By companionship

By the enjoyment of life

By the knowledge I am not alone against the spectre of one’s mind

That emblematic inferno in my soul

Fed by the tidings of hope and love

Cultivated by my passions

Decimates the shadows grasping hold 

And basks my life in the illumination of warmth

It chases away the vestige of the impostor

Who overtakes my being in the sin of doubt

And replaces the fallacy with joy

And the reminder of how far I have come

And how far I am yet to go.

The tides of time will not consume me yet.

And neither shall the cold.