I am not weak always — often my mind
has lesions and bruises, welts of dark void
that are fresh imprints of light headed thoughts –
also saltless tears from tasteless dull sights.
I am casually tricked by memories,
by the haunting presence of its absence.

I am ruined by that single absence,
left with a defunct brain, a hostile mind
that trickles down camouflaged memories:
fragments of sour specks of crusty void,
sprinkled all about to disturb the sight.
I am not weak always — and yet my thoughts

are angry — are empty and bitter thoughts.
The brain is a gray organ of absence,
that fears the eyes and is afraid of sight,
And so, I am afraid of my own mind,
it lies to me, turns great and whole things void
And leaves me unsure of my memories.

I am not weak always — some memories
leave me shattered, leave me wronged. All I thought
was real, shows itself. Shows you all how void
I am. How spoiled I am. I am absent.
And I am nothing beyond a bruised mind
There is nothing beyond the tainted sight.

The colors don’t match anymore. My sight
is a wounded copy of memories.
I think it hurts to have this sort of mind,
To question the extent of my own thoughts,
and to wish a type of total absence,
while here, while breathing, a soul so void

it imagines a hungry pain, so void
that it creates its own pitiful sights.
I am not weak always — but the absence
of strength lingers in every memory,
In each murky pool of unwanted thoughts,
I am afraid of those thoughts, of my mind.

I wonder if all minds are brutal and void.
Do we all fear thoughts, and question the sights
that haunt memories? Are we all absent?