Chemically Imbalanced 

Disintegrated by a lack of focus, nothing new on the frontier of the mind.
Brewing deep inside, from a savagery cutting beyond the dust and dirt, lie the remnants of my self-control.
Collapsed is my ability to think straight, concentration comes and goes like the dying flames of a seasoned train-wreck, smoldering for the sake of trying.
Anxious and isolated in an ocean of the blackest depression, my body suffers through the days, trained to ensure the agony my mind won’t let me forget.

Tragic as the consequences seem to be, nothing kills quite like the fall from grace, reborn for a better day, primed for the poison.
Feed me your excuses, recommendations as to the cause of the impact, lying through your teeth.
Does your conscience not steer you wrong, or do you let it ride, autopilot shifting gears all the way?
Maximize my thinking; the capacity is astounding, losing the grip that held me so free.

Notions of regaining my carefree demeanor, safe and sound on the shores of optimism, are obliterated by the heaviness that plagues both my body and mind.
Any allusions of snapping out of it, finding an exit strategy from the abyss in which I’m suffocating, is pointless, teetering on the edge of impossibly.
The reassurance of such thoughts, the probability of everything being all right, that I will rise from the ashes of despair, is easier said than done.
Every nerve in my body, down to the last fiber of my being, screams for a quick relief, a graceful pardon from this state of perpetual darkness I find myself enveloped in.

Tell me that I will make it out of this hold unharmed, that the black cloud that hovers above me will subside sooner rather than later.
Help me to feel something, anything, again, assure me that this apathy and helplessness are only temporary.
Tell me my days won’t always be so dark, that the light at the end of the tunnel is not a freight train (for once), and help me realize that I’m not the only one, that others suffer far worse than I.

My selfishness is disgusting.

© Copyright March 2013/August 2013/July 2016

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Immunity (Ghost Redux) 

My mind feels as though it is in a fog, the words I speak are not my own, and yet there is no way for me to be sure.
I can feel myself drifting, treading water without ever going under.
I cannot remember from one minute to the next, repeating whatever it was I said a moment ago, only to forget the next time around.
The pain I feel is sharp and dull in the same breath, despite the obvious contradictions.
My fingers grasp an easy relief that can only be dispersed every so often, which feels like an eternity to my war-torn insides.
I keep pressing my gray beacon of hope despite the fact I just pressed my thumb down mere seconds before.
I can feel myself getting anxious, the familiarity of pain beginning to take hold as it did in the past.
My fear shifts into panic as I continue to press the button, or so I am told later on.

I don’t remember making it to my room, I must have been too out of it to realize.
It is confirmed that my incessant pressing has caused my breathing to slow, something I hadn’t considered in my time of need.
I remember very little if anything from before I was transferred to where I am now, which I would imagine is for the best.
Despite what my body has been through, I look as though nothing has happened (if anything, a little tired perhaps).
I know, however, that this is only the beginning, this having not been my first attendance at this game.
As my body heals, pain gets worse, the more I try to push myself, the more intense it becomes.
I can feel a weakness growing inside, a shamefulness in relying on the instantaneous dose, a biting fear that it will hinder my recovery.
I attempt to hold out for as long as I can, until the pain becomes too much to bear, sometimes until it’s too late for it to take the full effect.

Dreams are often not dreams at all but rather the feeling of drifting I felt before, only now I am indeed fully submerged.
At that moment, it is the most beautiful feeling in the world, being underneath the veil of a safety so complete and so pure.
Nothing can touch me, or rather I don’t feel anything if it does.
To this day, I sometimes wish that it would grace me with its presence, that feeling of being under, although that I know it’s for the best that it didn’t.
For if it did, I would know of only its gratifying high, the sweet numbness of feeling nothing at all.
Despite the pain and all it has caused, I would take it in place of that numbness because at least I know I am still alive, not in a state of just being.

My time inside is considerably less of a stay than it was the first time around, which is rather welcomed in comparison to the latter.
It does little to change the consequence of what brought me here; my diseased insides turn me into that same kind of ghost again.
Only this time I have immunity, something can I most definitely live with for as long as it decides to stay, something I can thank modern medicine for.

© Copyright July 2016