I patiently catastrophize
the boisterous morning that will follow.
A day, like today, mourning, in a tentative morning.
I knew they were there, but,
how much can they deny me sensation before they
clamor and destroy what is left inside?
An ego idealized by the being of passion.
Driven, to a harrowing morning.
Mourning.
Polish the idea that this is safe,
that this is meant to be.
Crumble into insanity at night.
Mourn the morning afterwards.
This is existence?
A mind incapable of compartmentalization.