Optical Distortion (a poem)

Sunday, February 23, 2025

Optical distortion,
concave, warped lens—
I can see upside down.

The world bends inward,
a funhouse mirror gone rogue,
truth flipped, edges bleeding,
reflections smearing into static.

I can see upside down.

Light fractures,
shapes twist,
I’m staring at the sky through the floor,
feet sinking into ceilings,
walls breathing like lungs.

I can see upside down.

It’s not clarity—just chaos with a prescription.
A glitch in the glass,
a corrupted reel spinning backward,
looping echoes of things I don’t want to remember.

Tables turn,
grandpa’s pissed,
we’re all crying, like the little kid,
listening to the walls shake
with something worse than thunder.

I can see upside down.

It flips out—
bruises, toxins in the air,
trauma still sharp as shattered lenses,
no rehearsal,
just the jagged script we lived.

I can see upside down.

Let me out.
The marks on the cave door—
scratches, desperate inscriptions,
a life clawed into stone,
hoping for recall,
a whisper, an echo,
anything but this silence.

I can see upside down.