:

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

: