I still feel that poetry is not medicine — it’s an X-ray. It helps you see the wound and understand it.

The world around me blurs,

Into mere hues of the tangible.

It’s as if I was dropped,

Into the creamy lines,

Of an oil painting.

Tussling about,

I am left alone,

To find a way out.

Gravity no longer,

Possesses my body,

But I still cannot shed,

The weight of this world.

I am lost in an abyss,

A cavity,

A chasm of sunken daze,

Of silken membranes,

And midnight maze.

The line of reality is drawn,

And so I do return,

To my sanest self,

Delirium,

Shall burn.

Strolling sinuous streets stumbling selflessly sloppily scraping cement with sunken soles shivering shamelessly through sidewalk shadows studying sublime skiagraphy in scattered city sound silently sweeping through empty eardrums searching scenic skies in selfish solitude sleeplessly sauntering i stroll these streets.