i function
optimally
on the head
of a needle
in the midst
of a tempest
in the heart
of pure chaos
when thought
is removed
from the equation
survival becomes
the driving urge
moving on
instinct as i
weave the threads
of fate into
a tapestry of
horrified yet
resigned acceptance

as long as i am
not forced to see
the cause of all
this rampant chaos
is myself
everything is fine
i can hate myself
for it later