I wrote this piece a few days ago. Today is the eleventh. It says this was saved as a draft on the seventh. I was in an odd mood that night. This is something of a dark, self-probing piece. It isn't very long. But it is complete in and of itself. I thought I'd go back and "finish" it. But the feeling passed, and what I layed out before seems to be enough. I must state though that the feelings are kind of exaggerated. This entire piece is a sort of hyperbole. I felt a little dark and a little self-questioning so I took it and ran with it. You know what they say "When given an inch, take a mile." And that is exactly what I did.
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Where does one draw the line
Between tolerable and nauseating?
Where does one go to unwind
When what's winding you up is all you know and love?
How do we ever know
Anything of art or science?
How do we ever know
Anything at all?
Every single word I speak
makes me feel less complete.
Every single thought I think
makes me wish that I could go to sleep.
I'm running circles around this mess.
What a vapid display of smugness and control.
Running circles and I'm not even tired yet.
I'm such a vapid display of smugness and control.
A flat brain, lost, stranded.
As if in need of rescue.
A dark mind,
A place away from everything.
No, it's not a dis-contentedness causing this slip-strike,
Our answer to a fault line.
Don't even try to help me.
I'll get through it on my own time.
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