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.
Tagged with: poetry