Psychosis
My grip is loosening
Reality is slipping
I bit down hard just to make sure I could still feel
Every breath is another piece of glass that I swallowed on purpose
My vision is blurring
(Why does losing everything feel so good?)
Will I crave steady ground, if given the opportunity?
Maybe I’ll just close my eyes and slip into whiskey scented psychosis
3 thoughts on "Psychosis"
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whiskey always wins out…
“Every breath another piece of glass” is image of the day.
This psychosis of a poem moves me!