The soul is missed by me dearly.
It contained within it, simultaneously,
spark, spirit, care, and glimmer.
Lit by an inestimable null.

The escape of which I now suffer.
Is a daily sick.
Of waking up with shuddered groan.

I miss the soul when it had chance.
Even if my end were purgatory.
I'll take the grey to the decisive ends.
Focused edge where bright meets blurry.

fallen
in  a reality
made of cubes
huge cold cubes
your dreams
shot down
by inability
by ineptitude
by your limits
defined by the black voice
of a giant nobody
shouting
your occured
conscious mediocrity

Let’s play Name That Goon.
How many can you get right?
Someone you see every day
In the news, in plain sight.

The first one looks very much
Like a troll doll but larger.
He brags about how much
Money he has in his larder.
But, his blather does not
Include many discernable facts.
He’s about half of the man
He stands on stage and acts.

The second one is a talker
In a very vaunted arena.
He seems as incapable of truth
As a citizen named Fiorina.
He’s been faking his credentials
And his skin has darkened.
He’s orange, so one wonders
If the old KKK has harkened.

The third one was a big cheese
And he was a big deal once
Until his mouth and behavior
Proved him to be a dunce.
But not before his crew
And his ineptitude managed
To leave the country *******
And semi-permanently damaged.

The fourth was the third’s pal
In all those dastardly deeds
That any tale well scripted
Or any tragedy needs.
He made a bundle for him
And all of his colluding pals.
Maybe he thought that might
Make him attractive to the gals.

The next one is the queen
Of the Washington crazies.
She might make a bigger fool
Of herself, but she’s too lazy
And as stupid as a box of lint.
She opens mouth and convinces.
Every time she speechifies
The entire country winces.

So, now we have done it
We have played Name That Goon.
If this glib poet doesn’t choke
We can have more real soon.
So, you all play nice and have fun
At your next political gathering.
And keep track of who is who
And what they are all blathering.

Racing thoughts are not an
internal contradiction.
It's not crying while laughing.
It most certainly is not an inept,
young adult that describes
their mood-swings as being "bipolar."
Don't fret,
because I will explain,
in depth.
At this given moment I can list pages upon pages of what it isn't. And that's the point, maybe, considering that these racing thoughts have created enough points to produce a stippling picture of an overall paranoia.

Four days into this headache, an unattainable inquiry is not reason.
It's not reason.
Not reason.
Not reason.

At this point in my life there is nothing to achieve by convincing strangers of my sanity. No matter how many times I may try and blink a person away, it just leaves me with tired eyes, and in the end, less credibility. I'm gasping for air with a plastic bag wrapped around my head, praying that my body can find peace and not twitch. But I'm fooling myself, like a friend, your friend. One that exclaims love and intimacy, but is given a kiss on the forehead, blocking my third eye.
Then after a tumultuous day of unknowing and racing thought, I'm left in a neurotic state, waiting for a cool down period before I'm left
toxic and unwanted.

A raven, so quiet, 
Sat on a branch outside
For a chance to be.  

The ice made her move,
Her heart beat fast
The other ravens had nothing to say.

The feather in her eyes
Dried out on the pages  
In which she'd silently write.
    
But deep in her dreams,
She knew it would not be..
And gave up on her hope.

Metaphorically,

You were white
I was black
We could be grey
But we didn't know
How to mix colors