I need to get this to the external,
A plague of inferno,
A purge of the words that churn internal.
A song on repeat,
No break from the beat.
Like a train grinding track;
there'll be no slack.
This erratic, systematic flood to the brain,
its insane, how the inane can cause all this theoretical pain.
In response to a phrase,
The tree of thoughts that erase
that certainty I chase
and the memories I encase.
A mirage of the soul, so soon it shall lull,
a small jolt of the heart, creating this art
I lap up the words that spill from your lips,
knowing when it hits
the reflex will be instant and instinctual,
harrowing and hysterical.
But it won't last.
Destined to be my past,
a feeling that will fade; thoughts returning to sane
The contact loses strength
as a result of the length
and acceptance of reality delivers the gravity
of the preconceived ending and mending that follows.