Mental Terrorism and the Dangers of an Over Productive Mind
By: Jeff R. Young

Sensations move me, spinning me around. Oh, how I dare to dream of when my feet might touch the ground. But am I really moving? Is this all just in my head? Does my body lie in blissful sleep, safe upon my bed? Such wicked thoughts are maddening. But the truth is worse indeed. For when I dare to drop my guard, that paranoia plants its seed.

Everywhere I see demons; in the shadows, they're all but hidden. In the spell of their influential touch, I yearn for the forbidden. I shall creep and crawl and stalk my prey; the anticipation is near erotic. And as I feast upon the souls, I find the taste narcotic

But I am not a monster. I'm not the thing to fear. That's reserved for the darker things, like when unwanted answers become so clear. I could become your hero if I had the strength to lend. But my mind was lost inside itself, in empty halls that never end.

So here I sit and suffer, terrorized and all alone. I have gazed too long into the abyss, and it has claimed me as its own. So join me in my spiral? Jump with me through the hole? I may have thrown away my mind, but I'd be with you heart and soul.

I never found that landing. I'm still spinning round and round. All I hear is my tortured screams, and I think what a dreadful sound. I'm lost in imagination, a victim of my dreams. Deep inside this over-productive mind, nothing is what it seems.

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