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”.