Social Strands

I stand, I sit
upon this weathered leather chair.
I am the epitome of my own darkened thoughts.
I climb the stairs of my throat
and up my brain stem
and into my brain,
into my mind—
by a fluid wall of consciousness.
I look upon the four dimensional
screen that plays my thoughts,
my thoughts unravel,
displaying geometric patterns
that will never connect,
that will never make clear
the delusion of my
social interactions.
A knife,
a blood streaked screen.
I commit suicide once in my mind,
then in reality:
behold my actions spawned
from my thoughts.
My thoughts encrypted
like the DNA of an alien
from the faucet
of my mind,
through my hollowed eyes
and into reality—distorted, cryptic patterns of my daily
social logs.
Why can’t I understand normalcy
like I understand the intellectual capacity
of my mind?
Why can’t I relate to my social environment in the same fashion
as I relate to Purpura or Slater or Elliot?
This weathered leather chair
so comfy as it envelops my aura with the same simplicity
as stars falling upon the night.


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