I am so psychotic

In the mirror, my eyes are twin moons,

pulling tides on a shore that never sleeps,

while the world outside spins in a dull, slow‑dance,

unaware that I’m already three steps ahead.

 

A laugh erupts—sharp as a siren’s wail—

and drops into the carpet of my thoughts,

where shadows grow legions,

and ordinary words become jagged swords.

 

I hear the humming of a thousand clocks,

their hands trembling in a frenzy,

telling me that time is a liar,

that seconds are merely the breath of a phantom.

The streetlights flicker like fireflies trapped in a jar,

and I chase them, not to catch them, but to watch them die,

for in each dying glow I glimpse a fresh nightmare,

a fresh way to paint the sky with invisible ink.

 

But there is also a tender softness,

a rose blooming in the cracks of my cracked mind—

the quiet hum of a child’s lullaby,

the soft rustle of pages turning in a story that never ends.

 

I am so psychotic, and yet—

in this chaos, I find a strange kind of clarity:

the world can be a cage, but my thoughts are the key,

the lock picks of imagination, the silent scream of wonder.

 

So let the storm roar, let the colors bleed,

let the night swallow the day—

I will walk this tightrope, barefoot on the edge,

and whisper to the darkness: “I am here,

and I am beautifully, irrevocably, alive.”