it’s waking up, I can feel it rising
dangling fourth in the cutting line,
I count the chops as the bodies drop,
dormant, my malfunction
is a fault in my construction,
there are times when I fall,
I just can’t get up
as if my puppet strings
were cut,
there are times I freeze,
as if my bearings seize
so I’m forced to face this disease
head on, there is no guidance,
no puppeteer to help me balance,
self-taught, my train of thought
is as tangled as the strings that bind me,
my diagnosis is a fallacy,
filled with one liners,
and punch drunk antidotes,
I’m about a ‘section’ away from
the men in white coats
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