If I sell and sell, well surely all will turn out right?

Rich and well liked, yes, by my petard spiked. 

My inflated self-worth, slashing all around, scaring. 

Visionary playback, past and present jarring.

 

Frailty ignored, coping of an emotion hoarder.

Cycle of denial, contradiction, order and disorder.

If I reconstruct reality, surely it then becomes real? 

If I mask the past,  then there is no damage to feel? 

 

I exist, explorer, adventurer and habitual dreamer.

Caught in the web I created, fate catches the schemer. 

I guess I deserve all the isolation that I now get. 

And the self-deprecation, and overwhelming regret. 

 

I’ve no where to go, now that I know who I am. 

I do all that  I can without actually  carrying the can. 

The Grandiose last stand, and by my own  hand. 

Sum of my worth, a coffin buried in shifting sands. 

 

Legacy, a  ledger and family who watched as I bailed. 

And the knowledge, I lived and I sold, I loved and I failed.