Spinning in circles in these blankets of time and thoughts,
seemingly empty and sometimes caught.
My cold pillow crumbles beneath my head,
sleeping in slumber, never I said.
When does this all undo itself?
When do the synapses quit firing across my neurotransmitters?
When does the fear of impatience balance itself out?
Why does my coffee cup keep spilling over?
Why am I eating too much?
Why do I just want to be alone?
Why can't I just relax?
What is going on inside my brain?
What is the next day going to bring?
What did you just say?
What time is it now?
I am undecided about my anxiety,
seemingly empty, falling in my own reality.
It is a feeling of unimportance and misunderstanding,
caressing lost moments,
not remembering when I walked into the bee hive.
I begin to talk with myself, trying to figure it all out.
It becomes a job, not an adventure.
Definitely a misadventure of serendipitous exclusions
and deafening demands.
The answers appear internally, created by external stimuli that stirs me incoherently.
Was it a dream of corrugated realities or cardboard cut outs?
I am clueless of how it began.
But, oh, how I just want it to slow down or stop.
My reset button appears to be malfunctioning.
I think I had pushed it too many times.
I am undecided about my anxiety,
seemingly empty, caught in my own civility.
It is starting to disappear, behind the black curtain.
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 9:19 AM UTC
Spinning in circles in these blankets of time and thoughts,
seemingly empty and sometimes caught.
My cold pillow crumbles beneath my head,
sleeping in slumber, never I said.
When does this all undo itself?
When do the synapses quit firing across my neurotransmitters?
When does the fear of impatience balance itself out?
Why does my coffee cup keep spilling over?
Why am I eating too much?
Why do I just want to be alone?
Why can't I just relax?
What is going on inside my brain?
What is the next day going to bring?
What did you just say?
What time is it now?
I am undecided about my anxiety,
seemingly empty, falling in my own reality.
It is a feeling of unimportance and misunderstanding,
caressing lost moments,
not remembering when I walked into the bee hive.
I begin to talk with myself, trying to figure it all out.
It becomes a job, not an adventure.
Definitely a misadventure of serendipitous exclusions
and deafening demands.
The answers appear internally, created by external stimuli that stirs me incoherently.
Was it a dream of corrugated realities or cardboard cut outs?
I am clueless of how it began.
But, oh, how I just want it to slow down or stop.
My reset button appears to be malfunctioning.
I think I had pushed it too many times.
I am undecided about my anxiety,
seemingly empty, caught in my own civility.
It is starting to disappear, behind the black curtain.
