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  May 2015 Melanie Elizabeth Jones
I wake as your  friend                                     You wake as my lover
I speak as your lover                                       You speak as my friend
I act as your possession                                   You are my possesion
I rebel as your cover                                        A means to an end
I hurt for your compassion                             You live for my acceptance
I injure for your respect                                  Though it's never been withheld
I confide for your emotion                              You crave my direction
I give and you collect                                      Never will you rebel

This is madness                                               This is Sparta
This is insanity                                                This is the price of exellence
I can't be everything for you                          I am your everything
You can't be everything for me                     I am magnificence
You treat everyone the same                         I am fair and righteous
As a friend, yet as a lover                              And yet you seek more
And it's a cruel, cruel game                          Dare you grow capricious
From your twisted love, no one recovers     You'll become one I abhor

I am done                                                       You are confused
(I am never done)                                          And I will not calm you
I am sick                                                        As I am amused
(But I'm not tired)                                         As I drop little clues  
I will run                                                        You'l­l never leave me
(I won't run)                                                  But I'll abandon you
Because I love you                                        You'll always need me
(A better word is 'desire')                             And I'll never need you

Let me go!                                                    My grip is vice-like
(But you're not holding me)                       I'm not ready to let you go
Bring me back!                                            If I lose you, 'my dear'
(But I never left)                                          I must find yet another 'beau'
Love me only!                                             And I've not the time to put effort
(But you love equally)                               In little minions like you
Push me away!                                          I've not a care to give for
(Or bridge this rift)                                    You insects I never knew

Please, disappear                                       I am your torture
One day you'll understand                      But I am your salvation
That the twisted way you love                 I am your executioner
Could coax death from any human        And I am your redemption
Please, disappear!                                     You'll wish me dead forever
Though I'll weep when you're gone        You'll wish me dead I know
I know sanity will return                          And you'll wish yourself deader
And I'll eventually move on.                    *When away I finally go.
  May 2015 Melanie Elizabeth Jones
Those who Dance to the Music are
considered Insane by those who cannot Hear it.

But are we not all insane?
Are we not part of the same life of sound, music and death?
Are we not all behind the same wall?

We're all insane. It's just that not everyone knows it.
Which is why they're staring at me because I'm humming.

I'm sure everyone knows they're insane but refuse to admit it.
So they stare and judge.

Of course, we're absolutely mental.
We're mad.
All the best people are.
But the really insane ones are those who think they're normal.

Yet they send us to mental institutions.

Because they honestly don't realize . . . we all have monsters.
We stopped running from the ones under our beds, when we realized
they were inside of us.
We're all monsters.
No avoiding it.
To be honest I didn't come up with this on my own. This is a note written between me and a friend of mine. Thank you Sam for willingly having thought provoking conversations with me!
I'm trying out the hashtag thing. Not sure if I did it right. Oh well.
  May 2015 Melanie Elizabeth Jones
It is said that insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results

Call me crazy because I will repeatedly repeat and never learn

Maybe I don't want to learn because I love the cycle of yes and no and mostly no

Even though it kills us both
We are insane because we know that it is wrong and that's the way it has to go
And yet we try, and don't try again and again
And the pen etches into the page the same stanzas

The monotony sounds like harmony
Because in our insanity we are happier and unhappier than we will ever be

I would rather die waiting for change than to be without your sweet disappointment

To relent and reclaim my sanity would be a tragedy because I would have to write new stanzas and my pen is too in love with our poetry, to welcome a new subject

For the sake of my pen (at risk of her heartbreak) I will reject the cry inside of me to run to reality

While the hurricane proves pathetic fallacy outside of our window
We breathe lunacy and embrace

  May 2015 Melanie Elizabeth Jones
"Don't let madness corrupt you." A wise man once said, but it is impossible not to be corrupted when you're as dark as insanity itself.
I love him. I will until the end of time. I feel his hand in mine.... His fingers like ghostly kisses against my palm. He read it once. He told me I would have three children, all with my eyes. Then he whispered under his breath that they wouldn't be his.
I told him they would be, but he only hummed in disagreement. He stayed silent about it for years.

Yesterday, he held my hand just like he is right now. His fingers lingered on the calloused skin for a moment. He looked surprised, as if he recognized the feeling. I told him I loved him. I said it all of the time and I knew he felt the same, but this time he didn't say it back. He walked away.
I woke up this morning to three missed calls: one from his mother, one from the hospital, and one from our mutual best friend. I recognized what those three calls meant. I climbed out of bed and walked to the balcony outside of my three story apartment. I was about to let my tears escape when I felt his hand in mine. I suddenly realized why those three children would never be his. His fingers were ghostly as he traced the lines of my palm.
I know this isn't a poem, but I'm proud of it because I fought through my writers block to write this. A friend of mine asked for a story that he could illustrate and this is what came out.
A picture on the internet told me
That I should write every day
Because it would make me stronger.
It said to write even when I couldn't
But if I couldn't then how could I?
That’s the problem.

If I don’t write every day then I become weaker.
The weaker I become, the less I write.
How can I write to get stronger when
I am already too weak to write?

Its like throwing a bird without wings and expecting it to fly.
Each time it hits the ground it is closer to dying
But it can save itself if it can just fly.
But that's the problem!

The bird becomes more jaded every day it doesn't fly
And the more jaded he is, the less he wants to.
How could he possibly save himself
If he is already dying?

Its like slamming a door in a decaying home.
The hinges creak and the wood splinters,
It comes closer to falling apart with every motion
But the people who use it only use it for their own privacy.
That’s the problem.

That door creaks and splinters every time it is closed.
Keep closing it and there will be no more door,
Just an empty space in a wall,
Another hallway.
There is only one decaying home and only a certain number of doors,
Pretty soon they will all fall apart in your hands.
It sounds like a metaphor.
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