I'm glassy, threatening to spill over
busy mourning the sunrises I've missed,
moments I never noticed.
So present below the skin that days skip around me.
Am I sick?
Or is this normal?

Disease of self-awareness
Flies just stick to ****, every flight a quest for a new pile
so filled with purpose, unbothered by their nature
What do dreams mean?
Why do I question them?

The sky threatens deluge, then clears without warning,
dictating my thoughts, my moods, without thought.
Thought is a gift, the gift to muddle the clarity,
to question change without control
There is no motif, no purpose, just wings drumming the cement,
to right oneself after tumbling, to what end?