Irony

I'am made up of irony,
terribly sad because I don't do what I want,
what I should.
You will find me in my room
caught up in others' adventures
and dreams.
I eat when I want to be in shape
and this anxiety skipping around me
still hurts the same,
keeping me insane, running from it
only grows the shame.
Honestly, I'm tired and don't know
from what.
I feel so low some days
I feel ashamed to even look up.
The passion that drove me
is a vague memory,
like our souls to dust,
but
if I conquer a drop
I'll use it all up
and by tomorrow
all is well,
all is the same, hoping
something will change.
But how?
I can't even move myself.
I'm running on a treadmill,
keeping a good pace
but I don't fool myself.
I'm not even in the race.