Minutes to Hours to Days

The hallucinations and delusions show no relent. I can't stretch an afternoon or a morning into a good run; there's always something in my ear, it seems. Voices interrupt the quiet times, and the choir makes concentration impossible. To top it all off, I've acted like a total jerk to my friends. I can barely write this, how am I supposed to seize the rhythmn of my life into poetry when I can't even write this prose? I could use a friend, but I don't see any way into a more metered insanity or a scrap of happiness anywhere around me. Everything ends. I want the next end to be mine.