My head is overloaded;

My thoughts are the bullet,

And my brain is a hapless victim.

Nothing matters:

Not life, not death, not you, nor me—

Nothing matters.

The doctors call this an

Existential crisis;

‘you are in the midst of believing

Your life has no external meaning,’

He says, ‘don’t worry, you’ll get over it.’



In the hurricane of my reality,

I crack; my thoughts ****** my brain,

And I say goodbye to tranquillity,

And you with your fragile frame.

I’m not sad—I’m too lost feel

Grief. Instead, I realise this is what I need.

To part ways with our partial ordeal.

I hope happiness is what you bleed.