Fury inside of me, violently stroking a pen through false dichotomies of villain and prodigy,
Where class struggles and geography were born to condone these widening,
Of differences that are perceived through a lens like anthropology,
Looking inwards for a piece of psychology,
To make sensible the sense of war you feel the need to throttle me,
Like a bottleneck your choking on your own hypocrisy,
Check your bags at the door before you try to lie to me,
A quiet rage of poetically dividing,
Your point of view and fake news while I exponentially feel like retiring,
My bad attitude and obligatory use of admiring,
Because the algorithm created feels as dated as a psychosis that is now expiring,
Waking up now feeling like saying pick up the mirror because the microscope won’t buy you anything,
Except a nervous apprehension for information from anyone who’s hiring,
A battle of thought provoked a new wave of gospel which won’t bow or take a holiday,
I can’t go back to the hospital or who I was, I’m tired of banging my head on the wall today.
Psychosis is powerful. It comes and goes. I try to make the best with life and change the idea that I am not strong enough to handle challenges with mental illness
