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.