Ground control

This isn’t the astral plane,
we are not flying.

crying to mum
but I know she can’t come
dad, the same,
astral plane.

wondering on again
wandering off again,
someone’s babysitting
the neurotransmitters
I can feel the rattles.

Constant at 32/32
and
terminal they tell me.

I think they want rid of me,
there’s no appreciation
no friendly society
only a mind
that feeds on anxiety.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.