Looking out to the evening insect rain
I feel a pattern forming.
The torture of my thought:
Binge thinking, one way to describe it.
Images and phrases keep on gnawing
Away, like rats, uncertainty.
Really monsters made from
My neurons, popping clear like bubble wrap.
A lot of it is everyday thoughts
Conversations I keep as
Verbal mugshots in sepia wash.
In between the swirling meanings
There’s probably truth, the real version that’s
The hardest to see, and the hardest to
I defeat myself daily, hour by hour,
A habit I should have grown out of.
But up here—you must understand—
There are no rules, just self-made monsters.
Made from memories
I have lying around.