The mind (poem)

Sometimes there is magic in the madness.

Sometimes magic lies in the silence.

Problems concerned.

Problems discerned.

Problems overturned.

You hear the whispers beyond the screams,

that rage deep within your depths.

Hoping they will be heard before it’s too late,

or before you become consumed by its grasps.

The mind is a funny thing.

It plays tricks.

It clicks.

It kicks.

You can be down one day,

then alive another.

To know which game it will play today,

is a game in itself entirely.

3 thoughts on “The mind (poem)

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