A Trip Around My Temporal Lobes

I keep swinging, swinging between feeling too much and feeling too little
I should preface this by saying: This is not a bipolar ad- rather a testimony of how swinging’s made my hair too brittle,
and rendered my eyesight bad
The swing takes me to the Island of Guilt, where there’s a visual representation of everything I built, turning into ash with which my lungs are burnt
I tilt
myself back into the Land of Lost Potential, where I stand attacked by all these influential
voices that first whisper, then yell, reminding me of all the things I never did well
I surrender, then remember
nothing but the thunder
This time on the Continent of Grief, does all of this really belong to me? All these dead bodies, these poems, these dreams?
This is all way too much, I need to sit
Take a cruise on the back of S.S. I Don’t Give a Shit
Where all I care about are the moans I never got to give- That’s when a crew member serves me a glass of Stop Giving a Fuck
So I drink and I drink and I swallow him along with my pride and my less than average luck
I wish he was here we would’ve spent the night exchanging our mildly-intoxicating-never-gonna-happen-love
The swing smiles as it knows what’s happening next:
An unsightly view of the streets of Downtown Wrecked
I walk the streets by myself and gradually start to undress- The future’s not really near so I don’t really care and I’m gonna dance to the beat in my head until I’m out of these hardly-sustaining breaths
I let my brittle, black hair down and I leave my face on the ground, deliberately this time, as I descend to the Underground
Station of Hope
Nice to meet you, not really, where have you fucking been? I see that you’re also undressed- let me take you back to where it all began
back under my bed where the swing can’t find us, let’s hide there and count to ten
Maybe it will all make sense this time, maybe lights won’t blind us
Maybe this time God will heal our skin
