Deep within the corners of my mind I hide from constant input,
short-circuited from synaptic overload,
unable to filter out
all the world's background noises
that shatter the fragile walls I've tried to hide behind.

In prisms of light scattered,
like a prisoner of fright, battered
by human hatred, mental pain inflicted upon
tortured minds and bodies,
all in the name of God.
Is it any wonder that I sit and wonder
if there is a God?
And if there is, do I really want to know Him?

Last year I gazed at my teenager, quietly
reading about the life of Marilyn Manson,
while listening to U2 music.
And for a moment, the raw juxtaposition of two
such seemingly opposite approaches to art and life
blended into a most bizarre rainbow,
yet one which appeared quite natural
in light of mankind's recent history.

And while Skippy dog snoozed peacefully on the bed,
not a worry in his head 'cept where he hid
that big bone yesterday,
tomorrow came charging into today,
and today became just another page
to cram into the history books
and memory banks that are already suffering
from synaptic overload.
Some days I feel as if I am about to implode,
and sink into a black hole in outer space,
the side effects of synaptic overload.