We engage the conundrum. Too much here goes wrong.
Reaching out for help with my writing I am cursed
By brute force to become a citizen of hell.
So, to me, it seems this world is under the spell
Of ballistic aggression. I was at my worst
Of spiritual wellness. I did not feel strong.
This event, among many, remains in my craw.
Severe stomach issues cannot be diagnosed
Because they are in essence psychosomatic.
My actions are a sign that I’m mentally sick.
I know I’m not alone. The whole world is sclerosed
In a consummate puzzle of nature’s faux pas.
But for the grace of God I become infamous.
To be known as a danger or risk to others,
I’m unconsciously fearful of speaking loudly.
What I have to say is not for others to see
Until some kind of huge transformation occurs.
There is nothing about my writing to discuss.
What I am or I am not vibrationally
Brings about an explicit expression of things
That are either despicable or wonderful.
I must know that my words have not much of a pull
In this real world of monumental happenings.
The unfinished enigma becomes part of me.