Black Tourmaline Of Oizys Poem by Enchanting Owl

I am alone; I am in isolation.
There is no need for tumultuous motion or commotion.
I can't reach the helping hand; I can't reach the lines.
Something stops me; something girdles me with vines.

They hate me for being me; that is the truth.
Aloofness is poisoning me; I welcome the jaded booth.
Facing them is walking in an aisle full of nails.
My mind is a glass; my action is the ale.

Possessing the true meaning of blue outcast,
Torturing me with sharp words and scourging eyes—it's a high blast.
I can't keep up; my hands are in iron shackles.
I'm a feather; I'm a crumbling castle.

Is there someone extending their helping hands?
It's disenchanting because nobody would, no one will stand.
Redesigning my code is my challenge and wish.
Exegesis of my life, sealed with a kiss.