I've lost so much, I ain't afraid of loosing any more.

these words

were garden grown

in lines seeded

by my hand

pressed

with qualms

a many

onto pages

as gestations

birthed of long

and longing labor

over time

they matured

into the leaves

that filled a diary

with my days

which

without consent

was read into the record

and so

became

exhibit "C"

my guts

in open court

never

was that ever

imagined

you slimy

abscess boiling

vat

of yellow bile

I demand

the record be rescinded

the diary unbound

the pages ripped apart

the lines uncoupled

the words shredded

the seeds cracked

and shoved back

beneath my fingernails

from whence

they were conceived

the puzzle poured

was mine

by grand design

you rapist

of good grace

This piece is the one and only instance I've ever experienced of either automatic writing or jamais vu. I suspect most likely an acute case of the latter. I do admit though to being wholly unnerved as my fingers typed out this poem from beginning to end in one go, seemingly without any conscious effort at composition on my part. It felt somewhat like when you're dreaming and you become aware that you're dreaming.

https://youtu.be/YkkqEnpwOdo