This poem is speaking of the voices I struggle to get rid of every day.

Illogical.

When a Mother of four children choses her own delusions over the love and affection of the children.

I can’t tell if you’ve left or if you’re sleeping next to me…

Memories of how I slowly became deranged into an eccentric human being.

The price of suffering for depressions.

For a while this wheel chair has been sitting in the corner of my room. It was used for my grandmother, my uncle, and soon enough my pop. I just get the creeps out of the blue sometimes when I stare at this old thing.

Some times he just won’t stop. When you’re never alone with yourself, how do you manage to be so lonely?

Disjointed thoughts of a lonely man.

Delusional ramblings.