Can you please help me—
Help me find myself?
Because—yes, because—
I cannot get out of bed.
Could it be...? I am dead?
Those are the thoughts,
Thoughts inside my head.
\"Right\" is the wrong word for them.
I think I\'m left—left alone
to work on being right.
To know what’s really in my head—
My left brain is right outside it.
Still, I can rightfully say: I am the head.
But sadly, even if I smile at the end of the day,
My broken language makes me the tail.
To you, who will read this:
These are just words pouring from my mind?
To me, they are just words—but, but, they—
They reveal more than I can say.
My heart is heavy.
My head feels hollow.
These could be the last thoughts I borrow.
Could it be that I’m just thirsty?
Should I rehydrate my mind?
The water could be rain—a sign,
A blessing, not a flood—
Relief, not just reveal.
These are my last lines—
Or maybe they’re a beginning.
The end of emptiness,
the start of healing.
My mind may yet be full—full of good.
These lines rise like shoulders:
Chin up.
Step out.
We walk, shoulders high.