Me and REM weren’t friends last night.

Lashes fluttering, balls behind lids spin a search through my mind for calm, for kind, allthewhile, fear guides me to see hell as life, hiding there’s good in me, in the world.

Sunday morning used to be great, I’d get laid. Two decades later, dying to escape strife, my Sunday morning rise at 6 o’clock led me here to write. Why? What’s the point?

Attitude.

If I bash and stab at my demons here, maybe…someday, they’ll go away, and I’ll love myself, and I’ll know what it is to live without faking happy.

“I’m fighting an old battle…” I wish I could believe you see me like I see you. I battle reality for rights to the “truth”…you don’t need me in your life. I just diminish the brilliance of your light.

I wrote this in my journal:

The battle has begun. I vow to fight. Me and my brain spar over fun. I’m determined, stout, and strong and PUNCH BACK:

“No, I don’t look like a clown. Fuck you! I’m going to town.”

A seething demon reply, “I’ll get you yet! It’s ticking time til I take you down.”

Fist in the air, I shout, “Guess what! I’m not alone!! I’ve created an army of people to support and cheer me on, even back me up in our next bout. So, BACK OFF! You demon ghosts!”

Maybe, this can help my bad brain out.