I have these moments where my mind
races out of my control, and I’m numb.
My vinyl of turmoil will thrum and hum,
and never ever succumb; it is all
too much for me to process,
multiple thoughts, without pause, breath,
I come undone.
I often sit there and hold my head,
then grip my hair tight and tug.
To pull out those miniature demons
would kill the need for any drug.
And there’s a scar on my right wing,
where King Jesus used to sing,
serenade me with his psalms,
cradle me in his holy palms.
All that’s left is a cicatrix,
blue in sorrow; black in decay,
chameleon shield overrun
cannot compute; end the process!
Smile, sob, laugh, cry, hysterical;
I think this has gone clinical.