An addict in remission,
A side effect of realism
Is losing the ability to listen,
So all the sounds and the voices
Run around in your mind,
With no one to catch them,
No one to give them rhythm,
So they falter and wilt,
And later you wallow around in guilt,
'Cause of the guest you've become
in your own body imprisoned,
Watching your life like a television,
Your sense of expression
Lost in the repetition,
And what was once a habit,
A way to say goodnight to your mind,
Is now a foot unable to walk
After forgetting the mechanism,
And omitting the familiarity,
A progress in regression,
So you stand,
hands and eyes full to the brim
Unable to empty even a little bit
Of the chaos you've been given,
In those letters and words,
You feel no recognition,
Your gut carrying all the crumbled pages,
The barrel of your unwrittens,
But it's like your hands've been cursed,
To sort this mess they've been forbidden,
So you're only invited to a blank page
To listen to your own criticism.