While Atlas carries the weight of the world and heavens on his shoulders, I am bent to the burdens of my own world which sit heavily upon my back, and with each passing day they grow heavier and heavier. The crushing weight of my lugubrious fears keeps me a slave, shackled in place as I struggle to shoulder the heaving sphere of melancholy. Like Atlas, I am on bended knee, a hostage to my darkened thoughts that consume me both within and without. I simply wish to escape this prison of my own making and stand free as I watch my world of worries roll away out of sight. Time and time again, I attempt to rise up against the burden, yet fear debilitates me and I stay where I am, a broken sickly soul.
Chained in doubt and kept in a cage, the only window in this prison I am held in is writing. It lets in a soft breeze of relief and hope form time to time, and at night I can even catch a glimpse of the stars and moon cast across a darkened blue canvas. My master is myself, and she wields the whip that keeps me from escape. I am the cure and I am the cause.