i hate my imagination,
from it a nausating sensation,

i have absolutely no control over it,
unlucky like a broken four leaf clover kit,

it determines my thoughts,
dirties all the clean spots,

forces me to acknowledge the horrible that exists,
forces me to perseverate on the vile that persists,

it elevates my heartbeat in the middle of nights,
more venomous than the the most deadly of bites,

inaccessable is the calm and peace preceding sleep,
the invading images would make even the heartless weep,

constantly triggering a fight or flight reaction,
both unavailable like every other distraction,

death doesn't scare me, it's the journey,
stewie without rupert, bert without ernie,

the silence is so loud,
my brain a belligerent crowd,

it's tough out there, it's tough in here,
no one can rescue me from this type of fear,

uncontrollably scaring myself into distant corners,
dying deaths too far away from any potential mourners,

my only hope lies in the grey haze that traumatizes me,
invisibly crying behind the weak smile that disguises me...


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robin's picture

um ur poem is good its rythm

um ur poem is good its rythm and the thing that is conveys is correct but imagination is not always discouraging.we imagined to fly thats why today we have the aeroplane.may be sometimes imaginations are absurd but its not always in vain