Hungover

Overcome by the wiring not of my fault,
I’ve sought elixir distilled, the firey malt.
Though room ne’er spins the senses do dull,
More poison, more sin, the overload lulls.
Though poison I drink to numb reality
Remain I aware of growing toxicity.
Even drunk I now write, that may surely be risky,
It seems driven by more than this high dollar whiskey.
Though room ne’er spins the fingers move messy,
And thoughts intrusive temp’rarily left me.
Scattered perhaps are these lines of a mind,
Strewn to and frow, ignorant of the time.
What punishment comes ‘pon morning first light,
I shall deny not, I shall not fight.
Though the whiskey I drink to alleviate pain,
May certainly kill me, least it could maim,
I drink to release from trappings of mind,
As our kind is each really one of a kind.
So who on this rock which falls towards the sun,
Has answers befitting more than just one.
And who among experts of the spectrum,
Do find us more than a grant gaining weapon?
The line you read prior may seem a bad jab,
Perhaps the Walker as been the wrong lad.
The wrong lad to walk me from troubles abound,
I feel but an outcast, espec’ly of this small town.
Shot after shot, the body grows weary,
Shot after shot, these words feel more dreary.
I drink for the pain, I drink for the stress,
Whiskey frees strain, I will deal with the mess.
Ashamed I may be, come rays through the cloud,
And head throb from people, voices too loud.
For now I am ‘laxed, not hateful of self,
As I don’t oft allow a drink from the shelf.
Though I drink for the pain, and the room ne’er spins,
I do oft refrain from the toxins and djinn.
Though I do oft refrain from elixer, the malt,
Addiction doth loom, lineage at fault.
One more shot mind desires, though body rejects,
The burning the fire, it masks the defects.
Though wander this mind due now to the liqueur,
I think, now, no therapy could ease me much quicker.

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The Fog

'Tween hobbies, duties, ideas that may tarry,
Mind horse creeps without aim in a bog.
Upon chariot, memory 'n' thought it does carry,
But Mind has no bearing in unrelent fog.

As tick tock and sand fall wanes the night,
Nyx, merry, content, takes her turn to sleep.
Mind horse lays restless consumed in fright,
Tired, in sweat pool, it is my turn to weep.

When horizon glows faint and the hour golden,
Mind falls faint. Faints from exhaust.
Nightmares and terrors, my peace dream is stolen,
The fog strikes again, i have lost.

Spine-Top Penitentiary

Homonid on the fringe, what place have I
to calmly live with mind in ire
of its make-up known to be aberrant.
Hardships obscure, shortcommings apparant
to all who stare, raise brow and compare.

Marked as gifted, struggles ignored;
marched down the hall, shoved through the door.
Left unaided 'midst gifted abound,
but struggles tainted, leviathan frowned.

Plucked as a peasant, shunned by elites;
intellect leper, forsaken to proverbial streets.
Spectre of sapiens, an insipid enigma.
Hermitic Aspie, ashamed of the stigma.