Add It To The Pile

It's just one more.
It's just one more.
That's what I keep trying to tell myself.
My my senses disagree with my ears alone.
But my selfishness is too strong, and I take up the aspirations of a weakling.
Curled up, I lay in defeat.
In defeat from myself.
I am too blind to lift up my calls to Him, I am too set down in my sin that my intelligence left.
I clothe myself in such foolishness, the fever reaches my body in anxiety.
This shouldn't matter, but it does.
I'm tired of the let down, rarely it seems I get a pick-up. but who am I to complain?
It's sometimes my only route, cause running is my best defense.
I'm sick of it. I'm worn and pissed off now.
It's pretty disgusting how self-centered I am about acceptance.
The ever full glass spills over with oozing and heavy foam, stress flows.
But my "oh so tragic" plight is hollow, and yet i fell struck with mighty bipolar waves they emanate.
What's the point? If everyone will let me down, I'm almost ready to give up trying.
It's never fully directed at me, but I fall the farthest.
Why?
What is in my make-up that causes such a volatile reaction.
I just want to get through my time not in bitterness or anger, nor with any spite.
Yet still it's never enough. 
I am foolish.
I am restless.
I am a coward.
Add it to the pile.