The Thinking Thistle

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It seems as though it’s hard to
Find that sweet release
For others that, the welcome mat
Flows freely right before them.
That bitter thorn with poision tip
Prys deeper into thine abyss,
But through the thick and never sick
Adorning a cloak to hide.

And all this, Sugar Bliss to
Falsify my lifestyle.
I’ll get on top, but where on top?
This question eats my heart out.
Inside my thatch at doors I scratch
To break through into a world
Into a territory that is my own
Remains hidden until...?

Where is my timeline to view at will
And logically progress?
I curse my thoughts so nonchallant
And shallow to provide no assistance.
Am I ever thinking the way I should
To swim out of my sunken ship?
To thoroughly thaw that frozen claw
That clenches the key to life's trip.

Unhand my throat and give back my will
To fly to a far away nebula
Where terricota dreams burst at the seams
Of bags that are always with you.
I wish me untied to feel free to ride
And know the resulting destination
But I fear that the train has left me again
Forever to wait at the station.