On the white sheets,
They feel rough but at the same distant.
My hands were in the air,
Being supported by other ones,
My mind illusion them to be mini crutches.
I can’t see the faces that stand in front of me,
Like blobs of color from the paintings of Picasso.
I suddenly felt my subconscious drift to the air,
Leaving the body intact but still holding on to it.
Words float and drift away to the bright white room:
The words stick and poison myself,
Tasting a bit of vile with each word.
Words from the blobs come into the boundaries:
My brain spins,
It rotates like Pluto,
But it’s slowly getting distant,
I hear something buzz in my ears,
Not like a bee,
Nor like a broken television,
But a low buzz that sounds soothing.
My mind knew it was breaking down.
Like a vein exploding by heart failure.
Like they were called,
The spirits come with open arms,
But the Wil-O-Wisps just stared.
My mind spilled and floated more away,
Like stars who lost their lights.
These words I grasp as I lye down.
My hands resting,
My eyes closing,
My voice fading.
I feel like a robot in need of repairs,
For I’m hiding under the bed of angels,
They don’t notice me.
They fly away when I reach.
My friends gone.
Family far away like my body.
I only hear the buzz again,
Turning into a soft voice.