The Gears of My Mind, by Ruo Squigglesworth III

Nighttimes wandering capsulation,
erie still restlessness.
Nothing at all, yet everything in a lifetime.

Great abundance of thought,
throwing open the doors of insight.
Chained the past, the future holds not clear regrets.

Insipid mathematical clink,
content is surely naught.
With every torque, tighter still the knotted vein.

A scattered deck of cards,
the only hope is broken glass.
A focal point, my psycological holocaust.

~Scene~

Lets see which one of you can correctly interpret the poem. Bonus points for boobies.