being honest
with one’s self
when you cannot
see yourself
becomes another
endless pursuit
for answers in
the funhouse of
mirrors residing
in chemical soaked
folds amidst a
lightning storm
disillusioned by
delusional dismay
an anarchist awash
with anxieies as
another tsunami
washes the words
into a technicolor
sluice where every
important bit is
buried in the sand
leaving lacerations
in lingering prose
to stain the day
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
Excellent poem, Mike. I liked the lines “washes the words / into a technicolor / sluice.”
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thank you. i never know how to respond without being awkward or seeming curt, but i appreciate the kind words. truly.
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I know I’m a fairly sporadic reader (I don’t regularly keep with my reader feed – I’ve gone and followed so many people that I’ve overwhelmed myself with it 😅) but I appreciate your work when I do read it. Keep writing!
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