everything in my life
seems to be
on delayed reaction time —
processing traumatic events/
pain responses to any injury/
excitement and anxiety responses/
processing temperature changes in my body/
even my damn tarot cards seem
a little too far away from the reading
to the event they foretold
to be anything less than
delayed
[but, i suppose, that’s just how my body/soul
plays this little life game]
letting my brain
rest
for a second
it’s not nearly as
easy as
it sounds
grasp my flyaways
like reins
and maybe we can all escape
my own
brain
do i really
truly
actually
need someone to tell me what to do with my life?
[especially because, when told, i struggle being beholden to other people
and end up resisting every step of the way]
why does my brain make no sense to me?
meandering thinking
writing
reprocessing my brain-wiring
into something maybe more conducive
to living life
calmly
patiently
happily
[if i can dream]
the sin of being me
is punishable
through inside and outside means
and my brain can only get so far
in forgiveness
when it’s constantly fighting against itself
and my body seems to cling to living
as it falls apart
and resolves towards innumerable lifetimes
and my soul only ever seems to
chill inside/beside
all this angst going on around and around and around
but the dark part of me
[brain?]
[heart?]
[body?]
[other?]
it keeps reminding me
that i am punishable
i should be punished
through some means
hold my beer
i’ll do it
myself
[‘if you want something done right,’
right?]
feelings
feels
found around the heart
dissect them with the brain
and mind them with the body
is the soul the sole proprietor
of all at once?
or not?
i think
the reason
i enjoy organizing books
and tangible things
for fun
is the same reason
i can’t seem
to organize
my digital
life
physicality is separate
from me
from my mind
so i have some semblance
of control
over
it
virtual
online
digital
means to an end
end up emulating
what my brain is doing
so disorganization
is the only way i
survive
(i wish
there was another
way to
thrive)
the heart wants
what the heart wants
but the brain and body can be
so
suspicious
lazy
resistant
ennui-ed
[a poem about why i’ve wanted to sew
for literal months
but haven’t done a stitch]
woof
what a
morning
(and nothing actually happened)
(what even is my brain?)
kipventures 