I don\'t know what I write about
whether it be the short bursts of emotion
that blast behind my eyes like fireworks on a lake,
their gasps of illumination echoing across mountains,
or the weight and comfort of memory,
wrapping me in a cocoon of nostalgia
that wicks away the moisture building in my eyes
and hugs me like my father would, if he were able.
I don\'t know what I write about
Whether its the deplorable state of the world
and the cracking of thunder on the horizon
as different doomsdays
plot their eventual coup of the nations
that so desperately sought to evade their power,
Or the singular chaos that is life with mental illness
the conversations in my head
where tribunals war with each other over who is
king
and who must sweep the stables of their refuse
and sleep in the straw bales that shape my personality.
Nobody knows what I write about
Try as I might to make it sensible, circuitous, logical,
the rationale behind my decision is always the same.
Hide.
Run.
Don\'t let yourself ever become the burden you fear you are.
I don\'t know what I write about.
And I\'m not sure I want to know.
Because knowing is acknowledging
that there is a problem,
and that no one but me can fix it.
and in the end,
I don\'t care, either.