Jack

Tendrils have frayed
on a rope, now decayed,
as it gently sways,
amidst a circle of stones.

How long it grows,
to the darkness below;
floating above shadows,
amidst a circle of stones.

And though it hangs deep,
there is one it can’t reach;
a hand now deceased
amidst a circle of stones.

He tipped with a crash
and landed with a splash;
a thousand screams trapped
amidst a circle of stones,

Mania

I can feel a tension building; a familiar tension.

The tingle on the back of my skull.

The anxiety.

The anger.

The frustration with how much of this process of living I don’t understand.

The confusion of why I’m here, what I’m searching for, and why I can never be happy.

It’s a powder keg and embers are floating everywhere.

I get like this sometimes.

Sometimes I can’t push down the questions, the doubts, and the fears.

Every time this happens, I know. I know there’s potential.

Potential for a lightning strike.

A thunderous explosion.

A lapse of reason.

I have to weather the storm.

I just have to wait for it to pass.

Play dead, don’t move, don’t think.

Lest my presence be known to the dark thoughts prowling past.

The monstrous realities that exist in this plane.

Don’t even breathe.