...wanders too often for every day words to describe the experience.

A psychopath’s mind is a jumbled mess of cold rationality and brutal, numb disconnects. Raw numeric sequences with zero imagery. A void packed with information for the sixth sense. The one of thought. A sense impossible to explain using verbal language. A psychedelic trip which has to be experienced to be understood.

When the paper and pen work together magic happens. Genius at their job. They manage to decipher anything they’re dealt. The right words become clear. They are fit into the five basic senses. Seen and touched.

Although less of a broken mess, still a broken mess. Those unrelated might never understand what each word means or stands for. But all that’s really important is for my corrupt eyes to get the ideas they convey.

Once the echo has been removed from the walls of my mind and converted to words it’s easy to face them.

Part of me is scared. A coward. Afraid of what these twisted thoughts might mean. I control their world on paper, though. I am the Alpha and Omega of the thoughts that lands before me.

And I’m all powerful. Gifted the ability to read and comprehend versions of me that no longer exist. Abusing...

...struggle is from within

And it’s great if words get down

But that’s just one round

To satisfy the thoughts bouncing around

There’s more to do

The thoughts aren’t quiet

There’s more sound

And it’ll get done

Quite quick

And it’ll get down

And it’ll get finished...

...coming back later to look through it is more alluring. There will be gems if there is enough to search through.
The creator knows what the purpose of their world is because they’ve made it clear. Later working on disguising each word and adding a poetic twist. Metaphors. The time to fix will arrive. And then the universe shall be enjoyable. And then the universe will be entertaining for its inhabitants and observers.
But none of this is possible if the world, the universe never gets made. There must first be something to fix.
To create without restraint is true discipline. To drag whatever out of imagination land. To dive deep and pull out emotional and personal truths is a skill which requires immense focus.
All white empty canvases require artists to give them purpose. To be brought to life. Something is better than nothing, and a little bit of momentum might snowball.
And clever words might imagine...

...in the mental palace.
The lights are off.
There’s a monster hidden inside this.

Titled liar by reflections.
Imposter syndrome with an echo.
It came from that direction.

Inevitably watching sunrises can become a way of life.
Living a perpetual crisis.
Panic mode, the final form.

Seconds before the bomb blows,
The wire is...