Bitched

My hand and face in pain, I write slowly.
I'm not sure where the pain in my
hand came from but it was most likely
from the fight this morning.
Over nothing.
A fire is inside my body
but my brain is still controlling
no? I don't know.
My world is full of shadows
because I've imposed my brainwave
patterns' strange detections
onto it's plain-surface description which dictates
all is all and all is none.
There is no purpose to all of this
but without this pain
in my hand, in my face
how will i know when things don't hurt
or aren't real?
I'll have to just accept
that my life is too short to know everything.
"We were all bitched from birth," He said.
Can I really say some more than others?
My pain only seems more real
because i'll never know the world,
the auto-imposed world of others.
Not really.