Exploitation of space

Write…delete….write again…thought breaks….look around, too many people looking back at me… “Stop giving me those raised-eyebrow-looks; I don’t want to justify, give me a little corner somewhere here, where I can be,” I mutter to myself.
These days I talk a lot of nonsense, also talk silently within, voice spoils the element of a violent drama, magnifying the horrors of disobeying words. “These words are such rascals,” says the ghost in one breathe. So this cult….’words’ I mean, becomes our liberty, our religion, our whim, our route to escape, a string of muse, a need to suit (very often.)
When I fall at their mercy, I feel complete, when they oblige me, I feel weak, when they turn away, I am lost, when they act like a miracle, I am caught in a doubt…Words, they are, as random as my rootless thoughts.

I am pretty miss useless today, been pretty much like this for few days. This jungle of humans is rather depressing, the Tarzans and Janes of this pseudo professional world never seize to play their silly games…tired of them all…I turn to the better rascals…in words I find my peace again.
----
To come to think of it, I wrote for the sake of writing, I rhyme like a kid learning the sound of a rhyme scheme, believing that I might just find the lost treasure…or did I ever lose it?