I have become unknown to my “self.”
A simple conception-
What I hear of my “self” inside my mind
sounds much different from your perception.
My head, pounding, run down,
my body starts sounding a bit off.
Everything's an illusion,
a simple light, glaring on a shelf of flour.
Seems divisive, out to get me.
Panic on a shelf in harmless powder form.
Well that’s schizoaffective for ya.
Finding a way for plain objects
to become panic attacks in little packages.
This run down, droopy eyed sense of self
became sick of caring.
Desensitized by the realization-
This is a hallucination.
So my fear subsides,
but I know this won’t be the end.
Try teetering on the edge of reality
and what your mind wants you to believe.
So when it spoke of suicide. I said,
“For me, my ‘self’ is worthless in the grave.”
The point when my sense of self crumbled,
not sure when I witnessed it
turn to mud before my eyes.
Hey, I could’ve told myself that was an illusion all day,
wouldn’t’ve changed how real, it really was.
Yet I sit, and explain my disdain for Bukowski-
meanwhile I listen to myself sounding
more like him than I’d like to admit.
“Be what you love.” They say.
Well, I’d love to be something I’m not,
I can’t be an Emerson, a Dickinson, a Tennyson.
While I, used to be a “son” myself.
I’d like to be anyone but me, while I’m waiting
for this mournful moment to pass.
This unbridled hurricane of emotion
outweighs me pound by pound.
Toppling over me, is an ocean of the obscure.
