Why is it I cannot breathe, feel, even touch the depth?
Was I made to suffer thus, in darkness’s dopamine dreams, bereft.
Abandoned, weathered, beaten and broke, by thoughts like serrated knives,
these cortisol creatures to crawl, deflect, carving chaos in fractured lives.
A moth to the flame, yet visionless, blind, twisting, turning, tightening screws,
inject serotonin in an old, breaking mind, to chew, twist and abuse.

And I, forgotten by the light, confined, seeking...