I tend to overthink on accident.
Wondering if that’s really what I meant.
My own terminal illness; I’m brain-dead.
Virtually making my own death bed.
I think about where my old self has went.

I ponder when this turned into a vent.
How long’s it been? How much time have I spent?
I ask the wind while my vision turns red.
I tend to

Forget that I gave myself the consent,
To let thoughts wander and start to resent.
I speak but leave all the true words unsaid,
I seem to have let them escape my head.
Have you fallen asleep through your laments?
I tend to.