like clock work i pace this spinning ground,
summoning up these imaginary fallacies-
figuring out this forever changing world,
as i spin round and round-
clock wise, i think i've got it
counter that thought- i think i've lost it,
losing all grip on life-reality,
irresponsibly wandering through this lost life,
searching for meaning in these sandwich bags,
filled to the seal, with these evil prescriptions-
relax, everything is copacetic
i whisper into the empty bag;
in complete agreement with my two sides,
unanimously deciding against all odds-
to end this unrealistic dependency;
reliance on this rare but prominent object,
would be a complete and utter disaster;
among both sides they would bicker,
until they recreate that clock in my head;
spinning out of self control
i will patrol this empty room.