Disarray

I don’t want to believe everyone feels the same as I do.

My brain can’t be the same.

Overwhelmed by colors others call gray,

while their colors drive me insane.

Counting days, till they all go away.

Saying grace, but doesn’t feel the same.

My mind can’t be right,

we all can’t feel this way.

If we did. . . the world would be in disarray.

Black Sea

It’s all around,

doesn’t make a sound,

stuck in a sea I can’t see,

praying I could drown.

Desperate and can’t breath,

lost in a deep sleep.

Quick to forget the good days,

carried away on calm waves.

Head full of storm clouds on the bad days.

Riptides pulling down,

mind suffocated by a pitch black all around.

Not The Same

A piece of me gone and faded away

like I chipped off a piece of brain.

My hands have gone blind, and nothing feels the same.

Like watching a movie without text, I hear them,

but I can’t make out what they say.

Now it’s happening in real life, meaning evaporates.

Life had so much texture, now it’s hidden away.

My hands running over wet glass, it’s slipping away.

Even my words don’t sound the same.

55

I thought I’d die,

at the age of five,

when that car flew by.

I nearly drowned,

in a waterpark,

at the age of nine.

My fever broke,

at a hundred and four,

when I was just a year more.

I almost fell out my last rollercoaster ride,

back when I was twenty-five.

I survived each time and lived past every fated demise.

I knew I wouldn’t die, because my soul told me, “We die at 55.”

Tightrope

So much I used to write.

Every poem:

A fight,

a struggle,

desperate to remember the light.

A moment in the silence of the night,

when my mind runs rampant,

no end in sight.

Memorialized lines of a melancholic mind.

The divide between revitalized life

and a welcomed demise

is as wide as the tightrope

in my line of sight.

I have yet to fall, at least for tonight.

Creed

Consciousness, at its essence is selective.

Reality is excessive, chaotic in even it’s smallest sections.

Existence, raises the question, that there’s order in the Heavens.

God may roll a die, but even He won’t roll a seven.

Self Deception, it’s in our essence.

It fools us that we’re separate, while keeping us all bound to the ever present.

Dementia

Damn you, for what you’ve done

Slowly taking him away from me,

Chipped away his sense of time

now he lives, without a sense of life.

You ate away the love he had for me.

The man that raised me,

at times he can’t remember me.

Why must I stay alive,

watching as I die inside my father’s eyes.