Misdiagnosis

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The loneliest night was spent in insomnia
After a visit to a psychiatrist
Who told me that I was schizophrenic.

How the egg and chicken situation
Eats me alive, how can my genes by so corrupt
As I look at my scrambled mind
Holding the mirror at so many angles

And yet how beautiful to see the psychosis
You don’t have, refracted from so many angles
And I sitting on the floor, distanced by reason.

Now, look at me, stranger than folly
Trying to defrazzle from the ghostly labyrinths around me

How endearing is it to be clinically sane
And yet, possess the genetics of a madman
And be like a lighthouse, with rust
In her metal pieces, bearing a flickering light

And that vision, doctors call delusional,
Has been my panacea, of curing a disease I don’t
Have with pills of expression.
Schizophrenia gave me the voice of the poem.

How dreadful to live inside a bubble
Of a lie belonging to a billion people.

How barbaric for a lie to rape the truth.

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