Poetry as Called For

Mind, Dire

I tell myself

Better still to think;
The brain assumes a certain

Like it tiptoes towards a certain looming

But clings to a luminescence of being.

And with that, Better–

Better still to think;
Even in the midst of bludgeoning

Sometimes laughing, sometimes accusing

Brought forth by a singular decapitation of neurons

So, would it be, never Better–

There are no accidents;
As there are maladies so great in themselves

Constantly derided by talks of here and there:

The defamation of self, despair:–
Within cudgels of an innermost sanctum
Ravaged to the ground.

Choleric-melancholic, blogger, teacher, mental health advocate, book lover.

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