So I'm back to this...

the not sleeping

the whirring of rusty brain parts.

The pain in my temporal lobes,

The endless nights that I somehow began to covet

The talking to myself (Be real, that never left...)

The thinking on sociopath(s) that I dated

The men, the women, The man and his mother.

The sadness, I'm glad to say, isn't quite there

but it's been replaced by something wild

and unraveling, a true bear of a thing--

the mania, the mania, the mania

I'm so sick of that fucking word.

I'm sick of trial and error medicating

I'm just plain sick, really.

But I'm not all that sure, that I don't want to be?

Try to make sense of THAT.

Off to play with plaster at 243 AM

Christ!