Bonus Poem of the Week: Autopilot

July 2, 2015

You breathe and bleed like other folks.
You eat and sleep as well,
But inside your head,
You’re damn near dead—
A special kind of hell.

If your brain’s working, you can’t tell,
And yet, it’s heavy like lead
With a constant drone
Like an ever-ringing phone
With the information it’s been fed.

You can barely remember that which has been said,
Even words that were your own.
You mess tasks up as well
Where others fare well
‘Cause the humming won’t leave you alone.

Thankfully, there’s a way to once again own
Your mind from this sick joke:
Slow down and think well
In spite of the swell
Before your brain goes up in smoke.


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