The world is flipped
With odd angles
And strange curves
It has a bit too much
Or maybe it's not enough
Words invert
Shapes mutilate
Atoms overreact
Emotions are switched
Truths are lies
Happiness is an emotional overload
Stress builds up
When's the combustion point?
When does it all become
Too much
Or maybe not enough
When do the tears flow up
When do our smiles shatter
Like glass
When does time end
In a distorted reality
When does time flow
Backwards
Or is it sideways
Odd thoughts become more
Abundant
Your view tilted
40° to the left
Body shifted 32°
To the right
When does end
Where is the clarity
Like putting on glasses
For the first time
Everything snaps into
Focus
Is that my reality?

Sat Here

It all became clear

You are

Not worth my time

Not worth my tears

Not worth my hope

Not worth my *fears

Who to be,
How to grow

Along this rocky current,
The Ever Changing Flow.

In the water raft, I am alone.
Center of the sea, under the moon's ghastly glow.

An isolated isle of being yet to be,
So unto thee I cast this message to let me see.

Release the Burning Light of Clarity unto me!

How can you know where you stand

With somebody who doesn't know where they stand?

You can't

You Can

Just hold their hand

And you stand together

A moment of clarity is still valid,
Drunk or not.

A wonderfully wise and awakened man once said,
"**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?"
and that is a question that roams and moans in my mind
i have an army of searchers inside my skull
scouring for the answer, looking for a sliver
of sense to provide clarity through my abundance of clouds
and this man was an honest poet and a belligerent drunk
though he is famous in his life and even after his death
but if I were to die five minutes ago, where are the tears?
who would be holding their knees to their chest in fear
of their skin running away and their bones shattering in pain
Would there be at least one soul to moan into the night
when they think that no one is listening to their begging
and pleading to the stars to send me back into their arms?
If I were to die an hour ago, would there be a news broadcast
in the honor of a teenage girl who did too many drugs and
wrote words with a unique penmanship that mixed print
and cursive in a construct of phrases that made little sense
to anyone that didn't also have their own army inside their skulls?
So, I pose this question to myself every day in the bathroom mirror:
"**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?" and I hope,
if i prove to be wrong and an afterlife carries our souls upon the arrival
of a hearse to our homes and a tear to our parents' eyes that the wise
and wonderfully awakened man had found his answer,
but did not understand it. For I am crippled by the fear of not knowing,
though also by the thought of being content and no longer looking
deeper than the valence shell of my own twisted and sad mind.