The schizophrenic

My splintered consciousness
Is a medley of broken images
Shards of shattered tough-glass
Pierce through forced attempts at order
Dark and threatening circles
Close in on my eyes, concentrically.
My muscular male arms
Negate my underlying femininity
Sometimes I am male, sometimes female
Sometimes I am me, then somebody else.

I attempt to gather broken glass
For a multi-hued kaleidoscope
The kaleidoscope remains a dream
I only collect bleeding injuries.
My soul lies inert, in a glass jar
In the amniotic fluid of primordial confusion
As research material for neuro-scientists
Cushioned in chaos, there I lay
Afraid the jar would break one day.