An atypical yet spherical mass of spiritual
madness hides behind the mad mind of sadness.

It is poisonous but I am glad of this
biological drug sandwich
that is wrapped in my cerebellum.

I am crazy but I try to tell them,
all those children, women, and working men,
something is not quite right in this system
that tries to lie and sell them lots of corruption.

Reality is harsher than the scraping pavement
that savaged my already ravaged flesh,
tearing away tiny bits of skin and bleeding
barely perceptible drops of blood that are not compatible
with the white and gray grainy walkway.

Metaphors do not explain much anymore,
just cloud the conversation with pretty abstractions,
petty reflections not worth anyone’s inspection,
cause they are diarrhea of my own introspection,
a manifestation that seldom add ups to anything more than
other people’s interpretation.

No matter my intent these words
are just whispers in cyclonic winds,
I can’t imagine anyone cares enough
to let my strange thoughts infect them
with empathy and creative confusion.