They said I was cracked like porcelain teacups,
whispers leaking from the lip —
but it was the moon who first spoke to me,
in static, through the radiator hiss.
I walked between the TV channels,
met a choir of glass-eyed anchors
who told me truths wrapped in riddles:
"The sky is a mouth, and it's hungry for you."
Fluorescent angels danced on power lines,
their wings made of buzz and broken neon,
and I—
I was crowned in tinfoil
to hear the signals better.
Mother wept
when I unplugged the clock to stop time.
But time kept crawling up the walls,
dragging its shadow behind it.
I told them
the man in the mirror was not me
but someone watching me watching him.
They nodded, took notes,
fed me silence in small, white pills.
But then the sirens came.
Real sirens, tearing through fabric—
sky folding like paper,
reality twitching like a sick dog.
The trees began to speak in Morse,
and the windows blinked like eyes.
A cathedral of crows gathered on the roof,
each one bearing a key
to a door I had only seen in dreams.
When the ground split like a zipper,
and the spiders marched in suits,
only then
did they begin to wonder—
if perhaps the screaming I heard in the wallpaper
was not madness,
but a warning.
Too late.
The walls bled truths they had painted over.
The stars aligned into a courtroom,
and I stood trial before constellations.
They sentenced me
to a name not mine.
They wrote "schizophrenia" on my skin
like a brand to hide their blindfolds.
But I knew—
I was not broken.
I was breached.
And through me,
the veil had thinned.
YOU ARE READING
ChatGPT Poetry
PoetryA tapestry woven from the threads of cosmic wonder and digital ignorance, each poem a distinct journey through realms where intellect and imagination collide. Dive into a universe where quantum whispers mingle with the syntax of the cosmos, and wher...
