I'm so obsessed
Obsessed with finding something real
Incomplacient with reality
I want something real
As time goes by I grow more dubious
Eager for Something more
©sol /the poems i never wrote
Obsessively thinking, about thinking
I'm thinking the thoughts in my head, were placed there.
Something is wrong with the part of my brain that does the linking.
The seams that were made when my last therapist took out my brain, are starting to tear.
I'm lost in the flow of my words. Planted words.
Am I losing my mind? I can't lose it a second time.
The verbs I produced, destroy me, with slicing, and dicing.
And the rhyming, has turned into pantomime.
What were the words I spoke minutes ago?
Have they even taken my memory?
A part of me doesn't want to know.
But this is different, this is treachery.
Stolen thoughts, stolen memories, stolen words.
Am I the "crazy" that everyone imagines?
My mind keeps getting split, halves, now thirds.
I think the diagnois matches.
I guess I was meant to be crazy.
I keep rubbing my hands for heat
Trying to warm you but not melt you-
To hold you in any state I can
You're consistent as water
Obsession is an addiction that preys on the desperately distracted
A sure sign that I'm not healed
Self flawed and depressive
This puzzle never fixed
My mind is a glitch
The loop is infinite
I let go
I have this thing
This thing that I do
It's no big deal
It's just this thing that I do
I took three steps
That's one less than four
Even though four is not a bad number
It is too close to the ones that are
Three and eight are the best
Followed by twelve and twenty-four
And all the numbers of seven
Well not the numbers with five
Those send shivers down my spine
Even numbers are better than odds
Which combined with three is five
I said odds are worse
But thirteen is pretty great
As long as it doesn't mix
With the ones that I hate
And eight is Ok
But sometimes it makes me think
That eight is too close to nine
And to make nine you must have five
So sometimes I don't think
That eight is so Ok
This is the thing
This thing that I do
I know this behavior is strange
But this is just the thing that I do
Please help me
I hate this
Sudden and devastating irony that one’s skin can crawl, yet none of their limbs work.
The only animated parts being my heart as it hammers against the rigid, perspiring cage that it so desperately tries to keep alive.
And my lungs, as they desperately gulp for air like they may never taste it again.
For who knows if oxygen exists in the darkness that lurks at the epicentre of the collision between fact and fiction.
OCD is fun.
i'm not giving up
if i never had any hope at all
i'm worried about disappointing You
You care about me and that’s scary
You are so perfect to me
i can't stand to watch you worry your beautiful head over me
i will always be okay
If only I could keep it locked outside of me
If only it could cease to exist
If only I didn't have to scratch that
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
If only I could swallow it
Dissolve it in my stomach
If only I could
KNOW for sure if I would or wouldn't
It is like an earwig
Creeping through my brain
I know my actions fuel it
But, oh, it drives me insane
If only I had control
If only I could see
That control is the only thing
That gives it power over me