Another Year Gone Wrong

Memory’s splinters pain,
chaotic fragments never fuse,
failing to create a self
beyond psychotic illusions and delusions.
A front? A pretense? A maddened dream?
To explain requires some understanding,
but unformed self and wholesome others share such slight overlap
that lack of comprehension is the sole result -
any narrative requires a thread
beyond a desire, a whim, to alter stasis from within.
The chances of success
when isolated, incoherent thoughts of one,
which failed any test of rationality,
possessed ideas of superiority over systems built to withstand stress -
futility is too kind a word.
Surveying in sobriety, perhaps on better medication,
the acts of folly, the acts of lunacy,
makes the manic dream turn nightmare,
lived in apocalyptic form
each waking moment that now presents itself.
Were the faults from flaws of character
or were disturbances of mood or thought to blame?
Psychiatry attempts to mend the latter aberrations,
but shards of recollection prevent a peaceful unity
or semblance of a restful psyche.