I am not crazy.
Not to the naked eye.
On the inside however,
my humaness shines.

Yes I am crazy.
Revealing it only to you.
My love, we love to argue,
but I admit that you always knew...

The most sane thing I've done,
is be crazy about you.

Every artist needs a muse.
For emotion
can neither be created nor destroyed.

It must be felt and expressed.
Each piece of art,
a replication
spurred by deep appreciation.

You my love,
could birth a city
of singers and musicians;
ballerinas and bakers;
painters, poets and pastry chefs.

You are a dork
my love.
An unfortunate diagnosis.

For now
I am in love.
That dorkiness, my prognosis.

'Well sweat dreams' she said.
'I have sweet day dreams' he said.
She blushed forever.

Polished pedestal,
solid and steady.
Up you go, my dear;
get yourself ready.

I will gawk and stare;
kneel, praise and compare.

Until my knees bruise,
ego worse for wear,
eyes ache and vocal
chords all waste away.

So, tell me abou-
nevermind darling.
Your charcater is
near done constructing.

'Depression is like a blanket'
I heard a poor soul say.

At the time,
I could not sympathize.

Not until I felt that blanket...
And it smothered me slowly.

Ever tighter.
Ever heavier.
It was painful.
It was exhausting.

I did not know
what it was.
I did not know
for months.

Not until those little white pills,
extended to me by a nuturing hand.

The blanket lifted!
I breathed again.

But the air
was like ice,
burning
through my dusty lungs.

I could feel again.

But my thoughts
became deafening,
echoing
in my tidy mind.

I yearned to go back.

Depression
is like a blanket.
Can I survive the cold?

Give it to me please, oh sweet validation.
Relieve this bitter, dull life's frustration.
I dream honeyed words - of affirmation.
Such an inventive imagination.

Constantly chasing the future,
while clutching the past in my hands.
The present slips through these fingers,
elusive as desert sands.

So maybe he does hate music,
but he loves it when I sing.

Maybe people can't change people,
but maybe love can always win.

It is both comforting and terrifying.
I've never felt it at all.

I know not if it is love,
but now one thing is for sure;
I sure as hell have never
loved another boy before.

No human language can even explain.
I can never judge any two lovers again.

It is not goodbye.
it is just see you later...
that's much easier.

Thank you easy fix,
you took all my pain.

But I do not know
of what you contain.
I know not what is
changing in my brain.
Perhaps I have
a new ball and chain.

Psychiatrist please,
tell me what I'm on.
Thirty minute chat
'Let's try this, try that'
No, just please tell me
now where I am at.

How I love that feeling when...
breathing is natural;
talking is effortless;
my balance I regain.
I sing along to happy songs -
living in sync again.

I cannot take it,
the trillion triggers.

The impatient 'di-dum'
of posey fingers.
The conceited 'snip-snap'
of makeup-mirrors.
The piercing 'peep-peep'
of jeering fellows.
The stuck-up 'click-clack'
of sour stilettos.

Can the world please stop?
Just for a moment?

Once upon a time,
open, my pages lay.
An array of pictures and colours;
beautifully typed and evenly spaced
words on display.

Regrettably,
as the years went on,
my pages yellowed.
My ink warped and smudged.

Wonderfully formulated stories
morphed into
demented scribbles of desperation.
Affluence became affliction.
Reminiscence, rumination.

Alas tears
disfigure these pages.
Dust collected
through the ages.
Dog ears are carelessly
recurrent.
Once loved haphazardly,
now in voluntary abondment.

The glue
that binds me is
flaking, fracturing, fragmenting.
My spine is
cracking, crumbling, collapsing.

Duly I reside,
on the tip-top shelf.
Buried by self-preservation,
lies myself.
I obscure it all from another;
shrouded by a glossy, polished cover.

It is suffocatingingly lonesome in here,
oxygen is dear.

But can anybody
make familiar this language?  
Will anyone
discern these dark inky contusions?  
Shall someone
navigate the contents of my confusions?  

These pages
tell a lifetime
of valuable lessons within.
But I give paper cuts
to precious, porcelain skin.

A butterfly flew,
rather fluttered and floated;
contagious smiles grew.

Give it to me please, oh sweet validation.
Relieve this bitter, dull life's frustration.
I dream honeyed words - of affirmation.
Such an inventive imagination.

Oh please, kind stranger... A like for a like?
Comment for comment? Follow for follow?
Repost my poems, stories, pictures, tweets;
tiktoks, videos, quotes and recipes?

NO.

My phone is exiled, across stormy sea.
Numbers don't mean a dicky bird to me.

Thank you kind stranger,
for reading my piece.
Sighting me create -
finally release.

Never at all  
did I understand love songs before.

To 'do anything' for a smile,
simply couldn't be true.
Until you grinned,
and I looked at you.

Never at all  
did I understand marriage before.

To give up oneself,
your ambitions and goals.
Do it all for your family
and unite your souls.

It perplexed me how
they knew it would work.
Until one look at you.
Then my love, I learnt.

Put ink to pen
and pen to paper,
the words and stories
will come later.

Never allowing
the water-flow out,
will end in damage,
destruction and drought.

His face holds no flaw. His smile stops time.
His words paint a future in this willing mind.
He must be an angel of the Lord's design.
Yet, religion divides - it bars me from him.
How, Lord, is it possible? That he is a sin?

Oh to weave those thoughts into words;
how I yearn to learn your pattern.
I trip, I fall, I bruise, it hurts;
misunderstanding - a deadly casm.

Unspoken words to skin, it burns;
decipher the pain I cannot.  
While speech departs, action returns;
but without breath, our bond will rot.

Thus I reach out, unsteady, unsure;
hopeful to mend our silent rift.
Take my hand in yours I implore;
pull me closer, or grant our drift.

For the ground gives way bit by bit;
rough, festering seas lie beneath.
Water our seed, do not flood it;
rosebuds thrive on a renounced heath.

A shiny forehead;
accelerating pulse.

I'm anxious to win;
but thoughts escape me,
like smoke in the wind.

I lost hold of my-
self, clutching onto
this pen in my hand.

Always, I feel it
escalate - defeat:
my sinking sand.