It's a never ending war oscillating between affliction and bliss.
Traversing the museum of all the things ever loved.
Nursing the intensity of the wretchedness.
Holding on to the misery like a secret unable to
be freed from your lips.
Woven into the fiber of your being.
While stretching and shaping the brains neuroplasticity
by taking 2 steps forward, 5 steps back
Only to find yourself unable to
find the apricity during the coldest days.
Worn out
Tired
and as you give up, just before you close your eyes
a light gives you every reason to accept the bliss
while leaving behind the affliction.

Courtesy to the star that was forged to make me all I am.
Kisses to the protein and salts used to make up all the parts of my brain.
Though I still lack the capability to figure out how it holds everything
and nothing at the same time.
Even in a yonderly state the words still know how to line themselves
on the page, as they transfer from my head and onto the white screen.
something else I can't explain.
Like how substances can tell me how life should feel
but I lack the capability to grasp it for myself.
How I hold the potential to achieve the impossible in my back pockets
but even the possible seems too incredible for me.
More things I can't physically grasp onto.
I'm mentally climbing a man-made rope called strength.
I'm strong for all the wrong reasons, wrong people.
I just have to be strong enough to survive, but what if I just don't
want to do that either.
What if I just want to clock out, and call off for the next 5 years
to grow inside of myself and not this astronomical object that harbors
my life and anything else with one.

I find myself lacking the ability to find elation
in the parts of my brain that give me satisfaction.
In the parts of the world that are supposed to bring me
whatever the opposite of misery is.
the same way you lack the ability to find brushing your teeth in the morning
anything but tedious.
Because my brain is too big.
Your world is too small, mine consumes all that lives.
As if I was born to vegetate my own existence
and pick the pieces of my brain that hold fascination.
I care less about what you think.
if only I could step out of myself to stop and jot on
my eccentric behavior
the way I express myself even when I eat.
my supernatural way of thinking
and how that coils its way into my connections
with people who are only self-aware when the situation is far from the person
who is mindful of.
Would my analyzation of my core and the outsiders of this world
make me neurodivergent?
Would I be accepted into society because I need therapy?
Would it make me less human if I declined help from another one?
Of course let the person who is qualified on reading others
like a book read me like I'm just page.
Grasp on to the things I can't just understand yet.
Help me understand myself even if you are not me.
It all sounds vague.
let the therapist teach me how to be self-aware and learn a new ability
to not panic as much
the same thing we all care about in the minds of the animals that we eat.
I am not a pig.
I doubt I'm even human at all except the parts of my existence.
I can't even tell you what the world is
but I can definitely tell you what comes from it
and how it rebirthed me.