F33.1

That cloudy state of mind where

The voices become tinnitus,

And the world beyond the perimeter becomes

As vague and amorphous as the view thru a

Greasy window.

That underlying sound ebbs and flows

From peaceful cicadas to screeching sirens.

The view waxes and wanes

From lava lamp to acid flashback.

And inside this…

Inside this plexiglass box…

I still seek refuge in the corners

Where the screaming mumbles are quietest,

And the melting swirls are more colorfast.

I hate this tardis-like container of mine

That apparates of its own accord,

No warning or pattern.

Neither banging my fists on its walls,

So flexible, they seem liquid,

Nor shouting for mercy thru tears of

Sanity (Insanity?) at its edge

Break the plastic barrier between.

Between me and everything else.

Everyone else.

I give up.

I give in.

I wait for its moment of weakness,

By then too worn and tired to fight,

And instead, like pulling the sword from the stone,

Walk gently thru to the

Other Side…

 

 

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