This is not a poem.


This is a whispering crackle-fire

On a melancholy winter’s night.


This is confused rambling

Grasping at intangibles,

Attempts to cement abstraction.


This is a mental comb

To unravel the spiral-tangled world.


This is a stream of wandering and frothy consciousness

Beaten to white foam

Against the walls of a skull.


This is a life preserver,

That is to say,

My father’s words holding me above water.


This is a second brain

To hold all the thoughts

Both too important to forget

And those I cannot afford to remember.


This is a silent scream.


This is a brainprint of my past-self.


This is an open cell door.


This is a dance with reverie.


This is medicine.


This is home.


This is not

A poem.


Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash

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