Samantha Harper's poem is a raw, unpolished outburst about what living with ADHD feels like from the inside. The speaker describes a mind so loud and cluttered that she can't think, speak, or act, and ends up just sitting and staring. The images are vivid: TV static turned up too high, flipping between channels of thought, magazine cut-outs of people who seem unreal, and "chunks of thought" floating in a "witches brew of dread."
The most striking moment is the admission that noise isn't what frightens her. It's the silence left when everything stops. Then the fog arrives, making her feel small, and she begs not to be left with decisions.
The mood is exhausted, anxious, and increasingly desperate. The broken lines, typos, and trailing dots make it feel unedited, as if the words are tumbling out in real time. She even says she doesn't think she's describing it well. The poem closes with burnout, a curse, and a plain plea: "please help me..."