I speak to the moon
in the dead of night.
I come to her
when her light is bright.
I confess my secrets,
beneath the starlight,
and pray there is not
another soul in sight.
I dance with her sprites,
around the firelight,
and listen carefully,
as she recites her rites.
I give her my secrets,
and she ties them up tight,
hanging them high,
like a stalactites,
that shimmer
like the northern lights.
In return she incites,
that we unite each night,
so she can hear me recite,
my love for her,
beneath her loving light.

Maybe they can't understand
Maybe we speak different languages
And every time I smile
it looks like a grimace
And every time I laugh
it sounds like a scream

Maybe I've been saying all the wrong things
Maybe I've been speaking the wrong way
Like I should be smiling
with tears in my eyes
Like I should show anger
by laughing hysterically

Maybe I should be walking flat-footed
And they should be swimming in the sky
Maybe I should breathe their air
And they should breathe mine

So then maybe... Just maybe... They'll come close to understand.

At which point, does a man realized
that he is everything but a human who he thinks he is?

I am asking for your permission
to allow me to cut open your abdomen
so that I can pull your intestines
before your eyes and display it
just like the fish and the hen
at the daily market.
You may chew and taste it on your own
before you digest it,
and figure out whether
it will grow again or not.
Never mind, I had enough of this blood smell
so I am just going to ring the bell again,
and I am asking you again:

At which point, does a man realized
that he is everything but a human who he thinks he is?

There is no
calmness
and happiness
in poetry
those things won't
just fit in.
All that's left
in this
is madness
emptiness
and hopelessness.

When Socrates
said in Phaedrus
that poetry
is a form of
madness,
he must
have encountered
a truly, beautiful
mess.