The genius, the madman
Screaming and clawing at the edges of the mind
Pushing through the drone-like psyche to realness, to rawness
Sacrificing light, dwelling in a hell of their own making
Looking toward the sky from the bottom of a pit
Too far to climb, too tired to try
The ropes they throw are too short or too flimsy
In the darkness, the shards of light that do penetrate
Enter for sporadic moments
Sharp enough to draw forth a burst of life, of rage, of passion
Of anger, of bliss, of God
If someone hears it, they pay no mind, no matter
In the silence, they find their voice
Rough, raspy, barely audible, aching
Caught with cries and burns from toxic smoke and acidic respite
The roar has to be released
They wish it could be strong, clear, to mean something
Reach real people who will listen, understand, resonate, mourn and wail with them
But it falls on deaf tones, and the mask is safe
Although frayed at the edges, makeup melting, eye holes hollow
Smile wearily fading,
Ready to be ripped off the moment they glance away
They can find a mirage of a peaceful mossy bank
Soft and musky and pillowy
Even if it is surrounded by pipes and pills and needles and bottles
They can sit on that island of their own making
And float into space, free for a moment
Untethered to the gravity that pulls them back to their reality of solemnity
And wrath and gravelly talk of meaningless words of air and noise
They need to stop the noise, stop the oncoming barrage of atmospheric pollution
To stop the energetic vampires pulling at their soul
Plucking their heart strings like a worn-out guitar
With nothing left to give to any sort of musical legacy
But in the pit, dark and silent as it is
At least the screams and madness and hopelessness are only in their heads
Able to be occasionally quelled with rhythms and beats on good days
Blood and tears on bad days
At last, when silence is truly all-encompassing
Surrounding mind, body, and soul
They can rest
And the spark can prepare to ignite again