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When I stopped swinging,
Started listening,
I noticed that sense
Exists only in my own mind.

Reality was suspect.
Evidently, it was full of turds,
Or was my mind sufeit with sedative thoughts;
A soothing cushion for a failure.

Maybe my mind was the
Only thing that I could call my own.
Or was it a hub for an
Outcast to reality?

Sense existed only in my mind,
Or was it the only thing
Elastic enough to blur
Out my failure.

By calling failure mine,
I confused a sincere mind.
Because the reality that’s tangible
Is the reality that exists in my mind.

It’s a reality that amasses a vortex
Of emotions.
It’s a reality that triggers a
Depressive episode.

It’s a reality so confused by
What’s apparent that
It contemplates suicide
To preserve the little left of it.

It’s a reality that counts me
In its census.
It’s a reality that trusts my potential
And values my judgment.

When confusion blinds me,
I grapple onto one truth:
The life that strangers call mine
Is a life I just watched unfold.

The life I lived or didn’t thereof
Exists only in my mind.
Embedded in me is a reality
That only the gods and I can see.

The fact that MY reality
Sublimates in my blog,
Means that there is a
Crack through my mind.

Let me spill it all out
So that one reality can exist.

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