Internal struggles grapple within, like two gladiators clinging to the hope that murder and conquest will exalt them.
It's a facade. A ruse. A clever trick that the mind plays to prop up its multiple concocted scenarios as being arbitrarily opposed.
The truth is there is no opposition, only composition. And nobody knows what this mind is composed of. Not even the mind itself.
Paradoxical, surely.
The only solace comes from the high.
The pill,
the needle,
the hit,
the bump,
the sunset,
the glowing screen,
the page of written "epiphanies" and mysteries that make the mind either ooh and ah or simply shut off.
One way or another, the mind finds a way to declare a winner or, at the very least, a draw-- so that the match may end. For that's all that it needs. An ending.
About the Creator
NJ Reed
Therapy, work, and passion--but which is it most?
(I'm not a robot, but I'm also not Richard Brautigan)
Comments (1)
The page of epiphanies and mysteries 🤭 I had to laugh out loud at just how apt your poem is to me. Great work capturing this. I’m really enjoying your style of writing also