It's said that the earth's magnetic
Polarity will flip
Every few hundred thousand
Years.

But my brain decides to flip
Every few weeks on a trip.
Every look toward the future,
With gloominess leers.

It's like riding on a train,
50/50 through rain
And the other part is on a
Precipice.

But it has no destination,
And's surrounded by insulation.
I can't seem to get off it,
But there aren't any stops to miss.

This journey I'm on, it's
Half pernicious existence,
Half psychotic persistence.
Looks like
I'll need to find a
comfortable chair with a
half decent view.