Benzos, Bardo, and Brokenness | A Poem
by L.M. Browning, from a working collection
There is an 8 min window in the eye of the hurricane
—suspended in the bardo of belief and disbelief—
while the benzo filters into the bloodstream
and the fitful mind with hand outreached,
They say poetry must tell us something of life and the wider-world,
else it is confessional blather beyond use,
but what if I want it to be only for me—in all its obscurity?
What if in the confession of those things never admitted
the outliers find fellowship?
The abnormal is normal
maladjustment is default calibration
humanity is imperfect by nature,
so stop hating yourself for what you are.
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8,947 miles later, I know now why you refuse the say the names of those dead-to-you-yet-still-breathing—afraid as you are of the monsters are still under the bed—yet in the silence, you give them immortality…
Ride this life hard
we might outrun the sun
and not see the sight awaiting
in the bare daylight