This cycle, recurs on
and on.
A minute to waste, an
hour of hate.
I transform to a plural
of diverse characters,
the one who gets lonely,
or the loud mouth like a
threatening enemy.
It numbs the bones,
freezes the heart,
drags the mind to the pit.
Each circumstance becomes
a question.
Sleep suspends like a
needle by the thread.
Horses aren’t flowers.
Rainbows are never grayed.
I look back at my past,
see the child slides secretly
to the beehive of a mental drift.
2019
chester maynes 
Relatable. Love the images!
thanks! 😊