The Rough Seas And Their Certainty

I courageously assemble confessionals out of blank pages
And disclose my burdens
Such as the inheritance of my father's ego
And the throbbingly vivid memory of my childhood
It’s believed insomnia is the guilt’s consequence
Highly transmissible to the entirety of flesh
Must’ve been my lethal touch
My diabolically wired brain
Charged with self-diagnosing poetically through identical poems
Oddly perpetuating the incoherence of the pattern
In the darkest hours, a summer child like me
Circumvents the ongoing tragedies behind window blinds
Yearning and wishing
Sunsets weren’t depicted as definitive endings
Wonders whether her art is distinctive
In the never-ending ever-developing algorithm
In a sea of stentorian and squealing voices
The most tortured of a poet
Is merely a connection-hungry echo
Stumbling upon invalidation instead
Simply looking
And looking
To not become suffocated in the process