There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets
And those who adore poetry.
It is something that cannot be explained
Or described, only experienced.

And those who experience it
Are never the same. They know
The burning need to write and read
And the comfort of finding yourself
In someone else's words.

This madness holds a hidden truth:
No one chooses this insanity.
Instead, it reaches out to those
Broken, disillusioned, embittered
And held captive, by life itself.

I do not ask you to pity the poets,
Or those captivated by poetry,
But the next time you see one
Ask them: Why do you love poetry?
And watch as their eyes light up.

I've never told you,
But I've loved you for years.
I know you don't feel the same,
But I always hoped that somehow
You would fall in love with me too.

I never minded waiting
Just being around you was enough,
But these days, you've become so distant
I wonder if you even care at all.
Even when I was drowning in my own darkness,
I answered your calls and listened to every problem you had.
And then, when I needed someone, I reached out to you,
But you ignored every single plea for help.

Now, my heart is slowly dying
And I don't know how to stop it or who to tell.
With its final fading beats it clings to my love for you,
But even that is slowly fading.
And somehow, I feel it's all my fault.

That slips into the mind
and changes you,
your actions
and your thoughts.

It can be a friend
or foe,
saving you
or suffocating you.

The worst part is
when the parasite leaves
against your will
it releases a poison.

A poison that burns
away at everything
you are and takes
what feels like forever
to heal.

Sleep, sweet release
From life, from living.
Dreams, promises
Of better times and hope.

Sleep, cruel mistress
That leaves too soon.
Dreams, lies
Of false realities and hope.

What if I told you
that the greatest writer
was a little girl
who filled
diaries with her wonderful
tales, stories, adventures.

She wove a world
as big as the sky,
lore as deep as the ocean,
she loved every second
spent with pen in hand.

When she was older,
she visited an editor.
He took one look at the
tattered diaries she brought
and burst out laughing.

Her dreams shattered,
she left in silence.
Hiding the diaries,
she screamed
until no words were left.

And so, the greatest writer
became an accountant,
hating every second
spent with pen in hand.

Day by day, month by month,
her love of writing faded
as words lost their meaning.
And so, the greatest writer
never shared her stories again.

A friend once told a girl I liked that I was obsessed with death
and I yelled and screamed as I denied it but it must have
too much for her as she walked away and never talked to me again
that night I punched the wall till my hand bled
it was that or the knife
that’s a lie I never cut myself why would I write that?
I was probably looking for attention that’s what they say isn’t it
it’s only for attention not because I don’t know how to feel
or how to deal with my emotions not because
I can’t talk to my friends
I’ll never say how much it hurts and so they’ll never know
Sometimes they do know though and they ask and I lie
Saying everything is fine when I just wait for them
to go so I can cry
but I’m just looking for attention so what do I know
now I wonder if my friend was right
the day he told a girl I liked that
I was obsessed with death truth be told
the thought of death does bring me comfort
Not suicide gods no but the idea of an
eternal sleep free of anxiety or emotions
to trouble me does seem quite tempting
and now I write poems about my emotions
trying to put into words what I don’t understand
and hoping someone relates
truth is I never liked that girl all that much
and my heart is dead but not quite
and life is grand I mean horrible and  
love is everything but also a lie and this poem
is like my mind:
a chaotic cacophony of thoughts and feelings all mixed into one.

Their wisdom is old
and rooted in the earth
They teach the power of
silence
While we're too busy
talking
to listen to the lessons.

You can run and hide
In your novels,
In your poems,
In your dreams,
But know,
We'll be waiting.