When the Damned Ponder

What are these tangled words
but the musings of the lost?
Bone weary and tempest-tossed,
confusing thoughts;
run in place, watch every face
become familiar, however strange.
Each rehearsed expression
predicted with precision
as structure becomes a prison,
a poison that rots from the inside.
High tides of pride,
empty promises and disguised lies,
with every clone caught up in
dreams of individuality.
Back to reality, real mediocrity,
comedic tragedy:
self-made chains and
willfully chosen ignorance.
I lock these lines on pages
that age with bad grace,
sounding staged and overplayed,
hidden away with all false prophecies,
remaining only as a vague sense of apprehension
in the space between waking and sleep.