so much worse

Why must i struggle with the trouble of my mind working on the double in a hustle that is lots of thoughts to bring chaos for the "have gots" and the "what is" or "what is not"?? And it wont stop until all of its dialog has cleared the dense fog that was filled of foogazy's fasod in trials of flips and flops while it lays in one spot to rot like the sport of a corpse for a decaying of the sorts...it will morph and contort in its utmost felt remorse...slowly turning into something...so much worse...