Social Phobia

Social Phobia

 

This weathered leather chair

sits before me.

Its aged skin

screams mortality.

Sitting still

With an identity actualized

By the world:

Simply a chair

that cannot think.

 

For now,

I sit apart

Existing in between

syllables that ring

like

one, two, three

tolls of a bell

cracking the night’s silence—

pulling me away

from one truism:

Unique is ok.

 

Observe me while you will

With your gold plated spectacles

That scream scrutiny,

And observe:

climb the stairs of my throat

up my brain stem

into my brain,

see my mind

separated like chloroform

severing consciousness.

 

I look upon the

screen that plays my thoughts,

unraveled

geometric patterns

that will never connect,

a skeleton smashed,

its alabaster bones

lain strew:

the delusion of my social interactions.

 

A knife,

a blood streaked screen.

I commit suicide once in my mind,

then in reality:

impulses exploding,

spattering a deep red.

Behold my actions spawned

from my thoughts

encrypted

like the DNA of an alien

pouring

from the faucet

of my mind

into reality—distorted, cryptic patterns of my daily

social logs.

I remain a puddle

without a ripple,

frozen over, cracked.

 

The doctor says this is irrational,

But I just don’t know.

 

For now,

I will sit

In this weathered leather chair,

comfy as it envelops my aura

with the same simplicity

as stars falling upon the night.

 

 

 

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