Confronting Nag

My self-doubt can be crippling. Feeling like a bird with clipped wings - appendages can’t catch the wind. But I’ve grounded myself. Dumbo’s feather undermines my daring. The blockhead in me contemplates my track record kicking that ball. I lead a monastic life in this drove. Tired of being a face often seen but a person seldom known. Eyes: the gateway to the soul. My yellow pair prefers staring at the ground. Those times I’d disappear for weeks to find comfort in the glow of a cathode-ray-tube. The warm anonymity of overstimulation was my island. Good grief! This blockhead poises for a charge - full force at fear and doubt, shedding old traits like dead skin.