Endless void of articulate delusions and vicious delirious,
Dark thoughts fills crippled lungs;
Calling, screaming, find the truth,
To society shadow, the putrefied soul.

Wicked mind, weeping life,
Monstrous thoughts, haunt the mind,
Depression, misery, sees me right,
In this depraved time we call night.

Nefarious illusions of weak land;
Weep, beg, for the execution of men;
This articulate delusions hold the hand,  
Of the black torch of burned plans.

The archetype of flawless man,
See the day of the mystic shine,
Created by love of bright schemes,
And Annihilated by the thought of wicked minds.

Such Reapers haunt the barren lands,
In search for one, true light;
Mist riddled, hidden in sight,
It transforms the mind to unparalleled cry.

Locked in an
insane
            asylum
they are called crazy by all.
Sitting, sitting, staring;
Ranting about aliens,
watching the toddler
    float, floating
in the air in front of them.
On a schedule,
    tick, tick, ring
goes the bell.

They believe what
       you
or I
will not.
They see the world
the way we
       never
will.
"You're delusional,
up is up, not
       umop
Wrong is wrong,
       not write."

But what if,
not impossibly,
for the
             better,
not him
or her is delusional,
but
       you
or I?

From a dream,
Of your lips,
Telling a story of love…

And a fake date,
Were I’m waiting,
Desperately for your embrace…

And a blunt saw,
Cutting slowly,
Like the regret of lost hope…

And the pain of
Memories…
Like a fresh wound dropping blood…

From a nightmare,
And the flinches when
Demons start tearing my soul…

For assuming,
That I could,
Break the thick chains round my neck…

For believing,
That with blinders,
I can fake unseeing you…

And for thinking,
That there is,
A balsam that kills the pain…

But your distance
Just like cancer…
Terminal, without a hope

Or at least is
Very costly…
Consuming until I am broke

He bounced around
from town to town,
never becoming whole.
'Cause in his parents' eyes,
he was a parasite, hiding in
a hole.

And he let his friends down,
with promises and hopes
that deluded and destroyed
him.  Throwing his words a-
-round, never slowing down
to enjoy the beer and bodies.

He bounced around
from heart to heart,
gathering sympathy
like gold coins; hoping
that he could, if they
really would, stay and
cope a little.

And he let them down,
like his friends and his
parents. He thought a-
-bout dying and writing.
He thought about his
brother and every girl
he thought he loved,
trying to understand
if he could love if he
could not love himself.

He bounced around
from key to key,
writing about nonsense.
Or maybe it was important
and he minimized it, because
that's how he coped; or that's
how his father talked about
his son's accomplishments.
I guess his son would have
to ask himself if he ever
accomplished anything worth
making his dad proud.

And when he went to
the ward, Chestnut Ridge,
that was three years ago.
I guess he's still around,
working hard, New Yorker
something, something, something.
Dad is proud, likes Bojack Horseman
and The Walking Dead; all of this stuff
is so ******* irrelevant.

My dad is proud.

Not much difference;
Delusions and Euphoria;
Love and Mania

If I was as good as I remembered I was
My records would never be broken
The women would sing of my legacy
And my name be religiously spoken.

If I was as good as I remembered I was
My sainthood would be secure
For my charity and humility
In a heart, great strong and pure.

If I was as good as I remembered I was
I’d be praised by all my fans.
If I was as good as I remembered I was
I’d have been another man.