What is wrong with me –
too tired to argue, finding
argument in every utterance,
wanting peace, contrarily
lashing out without reason?
Is it the effort to untangle
my mind from the jungle
of sleep that leaves me
Your words are assailants –
bullets piercing my already
inflamed cerebrum – I recoil,
(this is not passivity) too spent
to quibble with your fallacies.
Maybe it’s frustration following
moments of equilibrium, in which
I aspire to normalcy, make plans,
set goals, am body-slammed
into reality, deflated once again.
I am building walls, shunning
interaction – heart aching, soul
despaired, I threaten congeniality,
fall apart – am sorry, and not
sorry – angry, righteously.
If I had words, I would praise
your loyalty, thank patience,
extol virtue – but I am too weary –
the formulation and expression
of ideas buried deeply within.
What is wrong with me is
the constraints of my current
disability – smothering sensibility,
crushing potential – dismembered
complacency, gutted propriety –
I am raw, festering, cringing
remnant, psychically flailing,
resisting daemonic, magnetic
impulse to disintegrate, surrender
to nothingness – cease to exist.
Forgo your platitudes, search
my eyes for truth – find the light
that flickers there – soft sorrow,
clutching onto hope – a lifeline –
and hold fast with your love.