:
The wounds are bigger now
Blood turning into ink
Dripping onto a blank page
I sit crying
:
Darkness stitches herself to me
Her sickness contagious
Blinding me from the light
And yet I see a glimmer . . .
:
Demons climb into my hair
Clawing at my clavicles
Snatching every bit of sanity
Tearing me apart
:
They stole my pens
Ripped my notebooks
Screamed and cursed at me
Told me I was hopeless
:
But somehow I am able to laugh
Though I write these words
With my ink blood
Dripping from its wounds
:
Staggering in pain
Yet satisfied, complete
My soul; untouched
Unbroken, but hurting still
:
The remains of my mind
Forming into poisonous butterflies
Flying off into a psychedelic world
. . . the one I created
:
Unsettled; though peaceful
This thing moves in me . . .
:
Impregnated by Anger
Pregnant with madness
Shall I abort this abomination?
Or let it live?
:
Shall I conceive to deceive?
How . . . how can I birth a monster
Who is the root of insanity?
:
But I did birth Madness
Didn’t I . . .?
:
Or maybe I had a miscarriage
And now here lies Madness
Dead in between the lines
Of this poem
:
Can you guess?
But wait . . .
Maybe you already know
:
Maybe you can even hear
My ink blood dripping its lullaby
On the edge of your mind
Maybe you are the one who is mad and not I
:
Maybe . . .
:
Although Madness could be alive now
Her essence
Flowing thru my veins
Writing this poem
For you
:
An old piece when I was in deep darkness. I will try not to dig up too much of my dark past. Hope you enjoyed otherwise.