mine/d fuk

the grinding blade
of the perpetual
imagination broken
into wingless flight,
a mind's sharpening through
blunt
strikes of reality's hard
hammer
driving things together,
smashing them
a  p
       a  r
              t
                .

as in what occupies
this grey matter
nexus of anxiety
and confliction, these
phantom voices
making up this
mosaic, a compart/
                              mental
narrative
             reality,

and what the fuck is it
doing, torturing itself
                          myself
all the time, all the time
trying to re
                 cover
from its own
oppression?

fuck you,
brain, says
the captive
audience trapped
in its theater
of dreams.