There's a thing on my face (a poem)

I just woke up and there's a thing on my face.
In order to breathe I have to brace.
It compels me to be and I can't see.
I say to myself, "here's a possiblity".

This thing is a story, it comes from the past.
It makes my neck hurt and moves me to act fast.
It's a complaint and it's not real.
It makes me suffer and makes me tougher.

My thing is a chair I speak into being.
I carry it around so I can see it's style.
Next, I'll create a possiblity...
Hey, I'm free of that thing now.