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Sometimes I contemplate the thoughts I shouldn’t, whispers from a dark corner of my psyche, curled in the spaces where sense disintegrates, fractured musings that neither lead nor liberate.

Sometimes I succumb to the urges I cannot name, drawn by the siren of chaos and craving, a rebellion against the tethered self,
seeking silence in the transient, the absurd.

Sometimes I speak the truths that make you recoil, words too sharp, too naked in their honesty, they splinter the calm with their jagged clarity, and I wonder if silence it might be the better lie.

Sometimes I wander where my feet should not tread, to lands where thought decays into cold desire , where time stumbles over its own feet, and the air tastes of something lost, or never known.

Sometimes I sit, still, as the world dissolves around me, rooted to the earth in a stasis,  
I can neither escape nor explain, the unspoken yearning to move, yet remaining captive to the gravity of thoughts, the inertia of being.

And in the emptiness, I find a perverse kind of truth, a strange wisdom in the pauses,
in the dissonance between what’s desired and what’s done, as the self in this spiral,

I find no peace, only the inflictions and contradictions that gnaw at the edges of my soul, leaving me half-whole, always searching, always undone.