Like a perfectly squared puzzle piece -
Life is the bane of my existence.

I don't know, diary,
I've been touched by morbidity. 

I am not getting this 'life' thing right,
My grips are tight and things slip

Anger comes from places unheard of,
Slightest hells are the shells of explosions

Am I even a person?
When I don't own enough to feel my very presence

Am I even a person?
When whatever emerges from me is obsolete

I am the sole cashew hiding in a bar of chocolate;
The behavioural tick that picks on unsteady nerves


And so the question remains;
Slices my veins as it takes the reins of my sleep

Am I even:
A person?