Depression (Iteration 5)

You see, I just don't think I am built for this
Something about the stitching of my atoms
Doesn't seem to fit right, in the grand tapestry
I am of a way that perplexes even myself
A way that crisscrosses over itself in a peculiar
Manner; contradicting itself, redefining itself
And the voice, inside the void, made of obsidian walls
It does not stop—incessant burrowing and twisting
Feelings that come on like gravitational waves

And how is a universe supposed to exist inside one
Much greater than himself? Or to exist amongst the
Hundreds of others that he comes across?
The World that crashes into worlds and leads to a
caustic reverberation that shatters the glass of being

One—it is the vile curse of One. One is the sole
pole that flies the flag of comprehension, which itself
misleads itself in the air, in the sky, in the flight of I

What for is the turning of the mind unyielding?
I think we are things of no mass, of no direction
I think that it is that we think far too much
I try and I think I try too much; a kindling much
too ambitious and much too hopeful of its end

M.M.