Mind is My Prison

Chaos, Art and You.
In the middle of it all:

Yellowed with age,
in a shelf (somewhere)
between the pages of some book,
the last crane we made, flattened.

Dye me white once more.

What lies do we feed ourselves in a state of our
chemical imbalance?

Existence is neutral
and control is a pyrrhic victory, an illusion,
that reality is anything other than grey.

Cave inside when we want to run outside,
project our inside to the outside;
but we internalize our outside to the inside.

A candle in the ocean can only burn for so long.
light with wine and heavy in thoughts.
They say too much of the outside may kill you

(so we pour meaning to reach that euphoric high).
but humans are addicted to pain.

A thing being just is. Like
apple or
notebook or
self.

tiny raindrops

exploding

muted within

shrinking

sphere.