Coyprighted material of C.H. Green

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Friday, May 20, 2011


Poison paranoia.
Diagnosis: Imbalance
Of chemical origin.
This revealed in voices
All too real from doctor's lips.
I hear the words, but deny
Their meaning.
Not me, not mine...
“We're fine,” I say, stumbling
Over scientific nomenclature
Like marbles scattered
Along my path.
Unsuspecting of such
I am defenseless.
I cannot stop reeling
From these terrifying thoughts.
Delusional. Manageable.
Incurable. Inevitable
Breaks from reality...
He drones on and on.
And I wonder if this
Is how it feels....
This deluge of conflict
Flooding over the mind
And drowning out what is real.


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