Bleb

how much of this bleb
is self-erected
and how much
created elsewhere
and thrown over me like a net,
built around me like a wall
as i shrivel and die inside?
does the melodramatic swirl about me
or do i brew it inside myself
and refuse to admit the role i've played?
life is good
but i fear that sometimes i pretend otherwise
to make it more interesting.
who wants to live in a rut
with tires squealing to escape
when the wheel aches to turn about?
surely the duck's wildly paddling feet
serve a larger purpose.
functionally, yes, the webs serve to keep him afloat
but does not the mallard seek solace in chaos?
or are just the hens drawn to insanity?

imbalance mirrors the moon, my goddess.