I'm one step closer to
Losing my ****, I say,
Knowing very well that
I'll need more than prayers
To keep me in a state of contempt.

Am I too much to handle?
Socrates once questioned
His own existence, so
Why can't I? There'll be
Nothing left of this page
If I speak my mind
And scatter my brain matter
Onto these overnight fears  --
Not in a literal sense, unfortunately,
But in a way only I can see.

When I think about the times I
Ever had a true sense of keenness,
All I see is a notepad with
As much emptiness as
The ideas inside of my cranium --
But look at the **** you'r--
Can I be any more clear? This ****
Is nothing but another daily reminder
We tell ourselves each day; don't
Act like you haven't thought this way.

When I've found the answer,
I can say that my abstract outbalanced
The complex and my bad outweighed
The good, because what else can't
A 16-year-old boy keep to himself?