The harsh greys of smog hang over the bleak,
slush filled,
pavements.

While the days,
dully,
slither past my window.

The wintertide is punishing.

I've found that I am unable to breathe through my fountain pen lately.

I've found that the words don't effortlessly flow through my fingertips like they used to.

I no longer seek knowledge through my compact pocket dictionary.

Nevertheless,
I long to write.

Often I find the days never-changing,
Doomed to repeat themselves.

I, Inescapable,
Like a moth to the dim blue glow of fluorescence.

To escape is one thing,
But, to watch friend and foe revel in their ignorance is another.


Like a feline sees the world through a sheet of glass,
I may be doomed to the same.

Although I trudge only in my youth,
And as time bounds to its seasons of Black,
Father regards to me as if still swaddled in blanket,
Pacifier in hand,
Though I have grown with the willows that tower Mother’s mind.

Whilst, I may falter,
And not display equivalent par
Countered to the scholars neighboring,
Flame, nonetheless, expands in the depths of my soul.

For, albeit, I may seem young,
And many, even those who have failed to exchange a word,
See myself as a willing delinquent,
I still stand with the willows
Seeking everlasting satisfaction.

Complex thoughts,
Turn into neglect.

I call this Brain Rot.

Brain Rot is the effect that society has on you,
forcing you to fit into a world full of fault.
Forcing your complexities to be unknown,
And taking form into our own identities,
Leaving us with no recognition.

So
Do we truly even exist in this twisted world?