that is not the case here, I present to you a poem that will narrate the opening credits of my life: the movie.
I have an overactive mind, and due to the chaotic energy my home carries, that overdrive has since crossed over to overstimulation. Sometimes having a busy mind manifests into ambition, I could get weeks worth of work done in a day. Once I completed a 15 page research essay in less than 5 hours, and there are moments when being overstimulated finally leads to a breakthrough and I am able to create during that height of emotion. Lately, that overstimulation has caused distress rather than the sensation of eustress I recently realized I am addicted to, which can make me incredibly driven or lead to a sharp fall. Anyways, my unsettled mind leads me to listen halfway through a song sometimes and jump into the middle of another, and then loop back and listen to them in full length if I find myself drawn back. I skipped around these three songs and spouted off a poem called “Breakdown”.
The actual meanings of the songs did not fully translate to my poem, especially as the songs vary in emotion. I wrote the poem when I was incredibly angry with myself but mentally drained to bother doing anything about it. As I sat there trying to focus at three in the morning, these songs came up on my shuffle on Spotify and for a moment I felt a little more at ease.
“Breakdown”
stranded on the highway,
a Cadillac drifting off the coast-way
cherry-red stark against the desert, beaten by harsh rays
foundations of mind crumbling, water leaking from the ceiling
upside down, still reeling
overflowing bathtub with bubbles of emotion, but still no feeling
you hear me?
sensory overload, like a too-tight dress on a humid summer night, might implode
spring clouds crept into sight, snuck inside, stuck inside
like shadows clinging to corners, smile and hide
turmoil tunes can’t distract looney tunes
song or praise, worship or rhyme; fleeting thoughts and broken minds
can’t dance to the blues, don’t dance with me, can’t dance with you
sanity defrays
stains on soul like grass-stained childhood dreams from soil
memories of tumbling down hills, can’t be made with dehydrated visions
weave inhibition to obstructing and envision; a passport to admission
midnight tea to fuel the light in my mind
read Dąbrowski and still perplexed
is this the end of the road or the beginning of a curve
simmering in cimmerian
drifting off course, the blinking enlightenment of an omniscient moon
have I lost me?
middle of a breakdown in the sun and now I’m suntanned
middle of the night, shifts of chiffon lilac-light, reminiscences of golden metal
meet the yawning dawn, rosy dustings of blush, sweep away the depth of dark
fought the lonely of the am night… now it’s twilight
unfortunately, these images were extracted from Pinterest and the photo credit was difficult to find.
confessions of a con artist 