I often think to myself that I don’t write poetry.  Then I realize I do.  It’s more… prosetry, though.

I have a fantasy that
my psychological disorder
is me brushing
against truth.  Gasping
for air.  The pain
of birth.  The shock
of being awoken by
a scream.

The terrible things I know in those screaming, sobbing, broken shards of time is the truth and sanity is the distraction from it.

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