“Time I Wrote a New Book”

Attempting to describe this mood in which I sometimes am

Is like attempting to understand the invisible molecule;

I know it’s there but I can not understand the rule;

My hope for this poem is that it will be like a tool.

At times I feel caged, as the man institutionalized;

It feels like what has been described to me as apathy;

There is a tightness, like Gore’s yearning to be free

It is as though some insecurity has a firm grip on me.

Hesitation dwells in the place previously of action;

My sentient soul seems under a spell, like atrophy

I cannot visualize branching out, being all I can be

I am figuratively sitting in darkness: I cannot see.

I think my neurotransmitters are used to responding

In a certain way when I imagine some social situation,

Most likely a result of heredity and internalization

Of social failures, maintained by self-observation.

A curse I live with is a tireless, analytical mind;

A double-edged sword with a dubious genesis.

I expect a snake because my brain creates a hiss.

The same mind that serves me is also my nemesis.

True, there is some risk, but not acting is an action;

My defunct memories haunt me like a loathsome ghost;

I am writing the same old book again, never transposed.

Fresh experiences are perhaps what I need the most.

Here is a poem that is somewhat similar in case you like what you’re reading.

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