psychological warfare. - Nikkita K. Makarski

My mind feels like a tornado

or rather, how I imagine

it would feel to be surrounded

by the vastness of one;

which makes sense, I suppose

when your mind is your motherboard.

I'm standing, right in the very middle

where it’s calm and cloudless.

I’m grateful to have finally landed here,

Although, I have to remind myself

that I am still in the middle of a storm.

I want nothing more than to just exist here,

close my eyes,

and feel nothing but the tempest

that is my new asylum.

for the time being at least.

Rather, I slowly spin around,

looking up in devastation,

awe and wonderment,

as my memories;

the incredible,

the shattering

the bewildering, the dreadful

and the exhilarating,

frantically spiral, encircling every crevice.

For miles upon miles it seems.

I am beholden to the beautiful disorder.

I'm dizzy from the colours swirling about.

the voices and the laughter,

the sad, relentless sobbing,

and the smells that engulf me

with each breath that I take.

the wetness from my tears is a fine mist

that coats my already chilled skin;

and dampens my garments,

looking like tiny pieces of crystal dew

on early morning blades of grass,

My locs feel wet and weather-beaten.

And I regretfully realize,

they’re simply just another part of me

that feels covertly abused;

my long, delicately embroidered

green gauze dress

is damp and salty;

sticking to my legs,

getting twisted as I turn.

I loosely hold my shoes in one hand,

for I desperately need to feel the energy

of Mother Earth

rushing throughout my being,

from my feet all the way up and into the chaos,

which, truthfully,

is just another word for my mind.

I weakly sink to my knees,

my fists tunneling

into the massive blankets of moss;

Slowly, I drop my head,

ready to embrace the bedlam,

I concede.

 

Nikkita K. Makarski

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