Some days I tread in the madness of my head.

Squirming tentacles of loathing with staining black ink.

Skittering crawling legs of anxiety darting and buzzing.

Black oily fog of depression chocking and weighing me down.

Whispering racing thoughts babbling and overlapping as a crowd.

Swollen infection of frustration gummed up and fit to overflow.

Stinging rash of anger rasping my throat with silent screams.

Dull heavy ache of resentment weighing in my chest making me weary.

These are the fiendish ingredients of my mind's cauldron, my stew of madness.

Some days I can bring fire inside and burn it all away, but the charred remains fester and come back.

Some days I can find a friend and shine a light inside, but this only halts the rot and reminds me of everything there.

Maybe someday I'll resolve this malady, answer the question.

Find someone with light to see, fire to burn, and care to sit by me as I heal.

Or grow old enough to take it all with ice and salt for my husk.