Sometimes this is simply what I feel.
Though, in the end, there’s nothing a good mate can’t set right.
I carry almost metaphysical thoughts—
restless shadows drifting through me,
bending space inside my mind
as if each idea were a hallway
leading back to itself.
They arrive uninvited,
corrupting gently at the edges,
shifting shape the moment
I dare to name them—
digital creatures of doubt,
engineered by fears
I never meant to nurture.
Sometimes it feels
as if my mind were a laboratory
with the lights flickering,
where theories I never studied
argue in the dark,
and my quietest anxieties
compose philosophies
in languages I don’t fully speak.
These thoughts—
these almost metaphysical thoughts—
are not seeking answers.
They survive on what I bury,
on the noise beneath my silence,
on the blurry places where
reality begins to distort
under the weight of feeling too deeply.
So I keep them inside:
not out of secrecy,
but out of uncertainty—
because when spoken,
they solidify,
and in their clarity
I might recognize myself too clearly,
or worse,
discover that they are the ones
carrying me.
Poetry by Brenda
Read 35 times
Written on 2025-12-09 at 16:04
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Though, in the end, there’s nothing a good mate can’t set right.
Self-Corrupted Mind
I carry almost metaphysical thoughts—
restless shadows drifting through me,
bending space inside my mind
as if each idea were a hallway
leading back to itself.
They arrive uninvited,
corrupting gently at the edges,
shifting shape the moment
I dare to name them—
digital creatures of doubt,
engineered by fears
I never meant to nurture.
Sometimes it feels
as if my mind were a laboratory
with the lights flickering,
where theories I never studied
argue in the dark,
and my quietest anxieties
compose philosophies
in languages I don’t fully speak.
These thoughts—
these almost metaphysical thoughts—
are not seeking answers.
They survive on what I bury,
on the noise beneath my silence,
on the blurry places where
reality begins to distort
under the weight of feeling too deeply.
So I keep them inside:
not out of secrecy,
but out of uncertainty—
because when spoken,
they solidify,
and in their clarity
I might recognize myself too clearly,
or worse,
discover that they are the ones
carrying me.
Poetry by Brenda
Read 35 times
Written on 2025-12-09 at 16:04
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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