Battle Scars for a Broken MindMature

I am two people in one living body.
The mental processing, split down to one reality
Everything that’s happened in a tiny span of life crammed into a cranium with the archaeology of strife.
Our day-to-day experience, our personal impermanence
molded by the world within its bustling circumference.
Born this way or formed this way, our bodies take their states of disarray.
Fragile things, fickle as newlyweds, bruised too easy, but our brains, they’re thunderheads.
Cascades of information passed through ev’ry inch you touch,
everything you see, hear, breathe – sensation’s a human crutch.
Overwhelming the thalamus comes too easily for some of us.
We lock up, shut down, and forget about our worldliness
imprisoned with our sympathetic systems on repeat;
some will fight anxieties, but we… accept defeat.

Is this what we deserve when our brains are missing a piece:
the lack of feeling—when synapse forget their happiness release?
Are we broken when we don’t turn up our frowns?
Between the feeling that we’re empty husks and living with the breakdowns,
what can we do about depression but our own self-expression,
self-medication, dug into our skin with claws and left it riven,
covered all the scars, dotted I’s, crossed T’s
yet somehow I think they’ll see through our niceties.
Missed meals, lost lunches, social life try to make us rethink!
the feelings still are coming, they bring us to the brink!
and push us.

It’s hard when life’s worthless, mirthless.
A wild, strange world resides up in our heads there,
the culminations of strange fantasies, manifesting into air,
the struggles of twisted realities and structures with their maladies,
holes in our brains too big or just discrepancies.
Awareness is a formula of chemicals like dopamine,
but when you have too much people think you’re just obscene, not real;
not natural, a freak.

Not gonna lie, it’s hard when life’s so bleak.
The dehumanizing difficulty of when you can’t make lemonade;
it’s every mistake you’ve ever done put on parade
flashbacks and memories too much for the faint-spirited
all of them waking nightmares, the hippocampus extorted.
And people call us weak for somehow surviving this mess,
how we hope our brains can destroy it, make it evanesce:
all these broken synapses,
memories of breakdowns and relapses
spark in vivid cacophony – a harmony
a symphony
of singing salutations,
first greetings and familial relations
day ins and day outs
fantasies coming in waves
and going in bouts;
think: what are we?
The totals of the agony, summation of futility?
Chemicals in a drunken cocktail of misinformation,
learnéd behaviors and ambition?
These fireworks of our mysterious impulses
keep returning to us, ‘till we all fall to ashes.

The End

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