A drastic blast of synaptic feedback pushing through I'll just hide it in this ***** knapsack, filled with stressors , triggers, and all my depressive rock tracks.


I'll lyricize my faults and sing them to you, and you'll be surprised at the lack of care as tears well up in your eyes, to hear all these thoughts, scenarios; this faculty of lies pulsing in my brain prying and supplying a fuselage of broken memories, and half truths whose roots brutishly dig deep.


  You want me to be yours to keep but I just lie and form the echos of my mind into words you'll understand an when this all comes out they'll say I was deep, but they misunderstand, I'm not deep, this black ichor that seeps deep and won't let me sleep, those thoughts that keep the dreams from forming beams of hope.


    so I just lay there, trying to find some semblance of hope, this trope they call a living nightmare this disease of such unease keeps calling, and I can't stop myself from answering