Untitled Poem

Psychosis is setting in deeply
I fear I cannot break through
And though I attempt this feebly
I cannot hide from what is true

Running; it is such a tiring practice
I do not remember seeing that hall
Tiring, if anything, shall be this:
I pray to heart to hear you call

Oh, life, what a redundant dance!
I tend to feel my heart wither
What is the point of wearing pants
For a life that is meaningless hither?

Little child, little child, please make haste
I do not think your life is right
Your energy should not let to waste
So fight, small child, make a good fight!

And I, sitting there, alone
Cannot think of anything better
Than to be the only one to own
Her own, special, self-hugging sweater