Challenging the Conscious

The conscious is always admired, but today the conscious is tired,
Unable to form a linguistic command that would interrupt a blank page,
Stares idly at something blurry that fades into a template,
A structure, part of a frame, watched every second as the eyelids drown,
The conscious still trying to imitate its previous self, though–
A past becoming a foreigner and the headache of it all begins,
Every sound is an attack to its personal privacy,
A characteristic of a burnt-out incomprehensible conscious,
And as you can see, reader, it produced a wounded poem.

Wednesday, 27thof May 2015
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