As Someone With OCD, is This a Good Writing Piece That Puts It Into Words?
I would first like to state that this piece can read backwards, as well.
From the ability to our spears, we speak for our sins in our quiet confessions; yet we never gather the will we need to free our minds from guilt. Have I done wrong, perhaps many times in my lifetime, therefore pushing me past my limit in many’s eyes; but is the say really within their views? Does rain cover the grass beds of our backyards when the clouds are too afraid to show their faces, hiding behind the pale weeping moon for comfort? I think not, and of what that means for my will I am not sure. Constant racing thoughts speed through me faster than the moon changes its appearance depending on its mood; quietly I hum within my brain, cicadas charge their wings in fury as they latch on to every bone in my body, thus making me weak. Questions may be pondered, of such one may appear to say, “Am I still a good person, I don’t want to die,” but must not speak it for its taboo nature reveals too much of one’s inner self.
Acting as such, my former youth, for whatever many years that may include, has driven me insane to present times, as fire burns ice. My once innocence spilling its contents hence forth out of my gut as my bones turn into dust; try finding it within yourself, I justify as my hand pulls away from my ticking patterns. As a clock I would be no such, for my hands do not meet me at hour, but by the second, pulling skin and ripping hair. I do not want this to become of me, yet it’s the only healing my body may perform from a damaged brain, though not appearing to many as melted, rather fried and served cold as I thrust away my identity to be forgotten.
Of each according to his need, to each according to his thoughts—I bang my head against my hands, then the wall, then I stop, suddenly. No more sense to keep fighting if nothing can help; no sense in forward projecting my real thoughts when the intrusive ideas comfort me in an odd way as though it has been my lifelong friend. Where would I be without them? Is it such a conclusion that I may be stupid without the cicadas? Without their speed would I be reduced to an idiot? Can you hear them, the cicadas, when I speak? Of course not, they’re in my head, in my head, in my head, repeated steadily to calm when late nights turn into days with constant stimulation. Not my cicadas, my constant need to suppress them fills me with stimuli, as though I am a cell fighting MRSA of all things—go figure, I would especially need a magical antibiotic to flip and reverse my brain, oh God here it comes again as I rant to you, becoming more open, as I fear, will change how I am perceived, oh God spare the remains of my meat as I am torn to shreds, shaking as I approach the dog that loves me, only to be told to leave, leave now, no need to help a cause that is lost within the sauce spread upon the bread of my brain, obsessively compulsing as I retreat to my conventionally stereotypical oven.
The cycle begins again, every morning, every moon cycle, every season, only getting better as I experience more of life’s wonders. Don’t twist my message, the ‘noided stimulation occupying my skull forbids the chances I may have had without such, yet I push. As I rip chunks of cicadas out of my marrow, I seize more of my true identity every day—only stopping to ponder how far in my journey I really am. These bugs are a part of me; a piece of the puzzle I must not remove, for my weakness makes me who I am at the end of my story. As a dog with worms, I excrete my poison with the potions of people, lovers who are willing to work with my state of mind. As foreboding as my words may seem, I insist you listen carefully, one blink may overthrow your sense of true free will. Choices make you who you insist you are, not the cicadas who leave it to chance.