People never write poems about this
yet it exists

This unability to exist
this intricated maze of meanings and beings
this path of walls and ***** games
this emptiness that's made up
this storm

this headache
this deaf pain
this state of mind
this hell inside
that's cold to ever write
about

This is what it feels like
being unable to relax
because you got lost
in your own paths
you tried to drive home
but home slipped away
you broke home
home broke itself
but home today feels far

Heart, where are you now?
Mind, why do you do these things?
Impair my hearing
of the world