I apologize for my words—
because they might seem a little here
and there.
I'm not extensively read,
modern literature or classic conformity.
So I may not be able to properly put—
what is wrong with me.
For one, there is much to say,
but my voice could never
my thoughts on the other hand
have never known silence.

My brain has chosen—
but my body has not.
And if it catches up to it,
there will be no going back.
Because that sense of relief?
I can taste it.
I think about it, shamelessly
and relentlessly too.
The buzz in my head,
the bite at my edges,
this feeling is unbecoming.

This mental cannot be helped,
no matter how hard I scratch at it,
because there's bees in my head
and I can't think of another way to smoke them out—
except with lead,
no other way out of this hell.
Ah, this head of mine,
do I need it rearranged?
With a prayer or a shell—
an intervention or a cliff—
Either way,
this tunnel vision
is all I see.