has emptiness ever seemed so cluttered
and dysphoria a welcoming home?
I've got a million reasons I can justify
internally that solitude is insanity;
my brains contaminated while I'm alone.
Dysfunctional anxiousness
leaves me stuck in a daze for days.
Questioning changing my ways,
but what are the 'ways' to change?
Why should I have to change;
who constitutes acting strange?
I wish I could rearrange my brain
so it reacted differently.
Rather than concluding everything that I do
is tragic instantly.
