Constantly confounded
monsters have mounted
problems I've counted
groveling grounded.

The constant confusion
from deficit delusions
create definite illusions
of excrement infusion.

The continuous questioning
can be quite deafening
lessening
the best of me.

I use a thought shield
so I cannot feel
like the locked steel
of stopped wheels.

F in the chat
for the death in my hat
I'm left with a lack
of discerning tact.

I'm living a lie
by not living with why
but idiot I
just sits down and cries.

I haplessly hope for a lucky guess
to get me out of this ******* mess
but I haven't seen nothing yet
except my own lonely death.

To feel lost in time is like waking up to nothingness

Numbness and pain fighting for dominance

Being awake but wishing for sleep

Life and death merging into one

Finding yourself being ripped in half but a thread holding the pieces together

Not knowing how to continue and yet walking forwards anyways

Wanting to disappear and yet still existing

Cycles of pain
Circles of healing
What did I learn

Did I hold on
                         to the pain and miss
                                                              th­e lesson

Trauma can teach
But how do you know
The right lesson

We need meaning
To contextualize our pain
To start healing

If there is no meaning
Then we create one
It’s our greatest strength
Or possibly
                      our greatest weakness

I may make one meaning
You may make another

Which is right?
Both?
Neither?

Time will tell
Time will heal

But in time
                     Lessons can fade

We reimagine our past
With the meanings that we make

Who can say who’s right
And who’s wrong
In your own history

Does it matter in the end?
When the lessons we seem to learn best
Are the ones we already believe

New ideas are harder
Does harder mean better?
More real?
More right?

I don’t know

I guess I will just
Continue to make meaning

Seek to heal
         And hope for the best

She struck straight through me
With a sharp, silver, spear

She said she loved me
So I suppressed superstition

but now...

She stabbed me with a stimulant
That scared my soul

So much so that,
I feel sickening sadness

And show grey stained smiles.

We're wordsmiths forging a masterpiece
Perception's the brush to our mastery
Phrases sculpted like chiseled marble
with Michelangelo's dexterity

times' thoughts struggle to translate to poetry
& ideologies unleash your inner lunatic
But as Picasso proved, with his absurd canvas
Even confusion could be artistry!

The world's preposterous afterall
Its Interpretations come from the cardiac
& psychosis is better than normalcy
I'm fine sounding like
             A dyslexic graphomaniac.