From early journals, I think around 2001. Brought to mind by my recent brush with psychosis.
Is my mind
The precision of a fractured instrument
The constant slight shudder
Threatening to fall completely
And shatter beyond recognition.
Some days the feeling
Of being slightly out of kilter
Is almost buried
As if the fractured world
For a moment moved upon its axis
To my degree, and with that tilt
Things seemed almost right
But the limping sphere
Moved upon its course
And left me, leaning my head slightly
Trying to make the images line up.
Other days I wake
And stagger, feeling the whole machine
Feeling pieces fall
From the edges of my mind
Until I fall into the darkness
To the sound of glass breaking
And the whole broken mess
Slices through my face
Leaving me blind, deaf, and mute
Lost in the shadows
With my hands full of broken glass.
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