Broken: Fog
All those years I thought I was sane,
The sharpest tool in the shed,
I think I believed every thought I thought,
Sat soberly up in my head,
Because every short night I’d lay wide awake,
Rehearsing thoughts over again,
Of what and how to present myself,
In conversations I had to invent,
And I clearly chose to ignore the blur,
The days when my mind was a fog,
I chose to ignore all the signs I had,
Befriending a moody black dog,
Now nothing is fun, people are shades,
My thoughts are a little corrupt,
And the light in the tunnel’s a flickering sign,
Flashing: “Lewis - you’re mentally f####d”.
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