There’s something wrong with my head,
Chaos overwhelms when I pull the thread.
Nothing’s real and my rationality’s fled.
When I turn inwards and face the dread.
Mental landmines impact my tread,
Realisations growing like bacteria bred.
Answers to questions best left unsaid.
Like how come what happened in that bed,
Is less confronting than what was said?
Or why you were all silent whenever I plead,
Whenever I withdrew, and whenever I bled?
Or who would I be were I not shred?
Dead or alive, it all feels the same,
My vision clouded red.
Fed lies and shamed, misled and blamed.
Instead of love I was led into fear.
Crossbred reality with fiction, with you the godhead.
My anger disparaged, an outburst unread, just a hothead,
Stoking the fire of my heart, molten lead.
Left me burning, a stomach warhead.
Left me confused, with no cred
‘Ability to explain my pain, or why I spread
Myself around for anyone’s gain, or why I wish for anything else instead.
It’s time for a re-tread. To face the dread of the bed and what was said. To destroy the godhead, to pull the thread, to get out of my head, to retract the mislead, to remove the lead, to heal where I bled, to put onto the page all that’s unread, and to forgive the boy who couldn’t have fled.
Here lies my head.
