Five. Cinco.

Half of the ten and a fifth of the twenty five. Mathematics are a funny subject, don't you think? Some man just made up letters to correlate with numbers to transcend to concepts that in all reality could mean nothing and the square root of a orangutan could actually be yellow.

I contemplate on that a lot, being the Grace that I am, wondering if what's real is real, if words are just words, or all they the pygmy hippopotamuses flying in my dreams. Anything is possible. Dreams could be reality, and reality could be a dream. Or maybe there is no such thing as realness, and everything is just madness.

I learned a lot from my friend the Mad Hatter, how to love, how to be disappointed, how to fall into a pit of despair and how to wear a hat like a ****** deviant and love it.

But the most important thing I learned is that sanity is very subjective, because what may seem totally sane to me, completely within the norm, may seem like complex incongruity to someone else. Maybe we're all mad. Maybe no one's mad. Maybe its just you, maybe its not you.

Special. That's another word that always got me, but I prefer to think in the realms that everyone is different. The world is in different shades and hues, none are ever quite the same, so why should people be that way?

But maybe yet again I'm only speaking in riddles and soliloquies and monologues and standing over all my conquests I am screaming my thoughts while they utter not a word, fearful of manic me.

I'd be afraid of manic me. She is quite the finger-twitching tyrant.

Words are words but are they real? Are they what you mean or are they just lies, lies, words that you scream until she dies, dies, and the world is at peace.

Oh, that's not right.

I once wrote a short poem similar to that I could recite by heart, but as my heart has changed the words become jumbled. Death creeps its way into lies, and heavy juxtaposition ***** with my meanings. Eating my words, until I am not a girl anymore, I am a leaf, or a bat, stuck in Wonderland until the end of my days.

Funny how Alice the savior became Alice the bat.

Wait, I'm not Alice, I'm Grace.

Oh, I do not know who I am anymore. And that is the tragic beauty of Wonderland. You just never know what, or who, tomorrow may bring.

Wonderland has an alleyway you know,
said Alice to her grandson of three.
It's not all shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax,
unbirthdays and cups of tea.

Where the white rabbit is on time for once.
From South Africa he ran,
To be tried before the red queen -
for shooting Mary Ann.

It's where the buildings are not simply filled
with cakes and cups of tea;
They explode - not from happiness -
but planes and TNT.

Where we need not paint the roses red
nor support the white knights plight.
For recently he lost his head -
Now they're painting England white...

I consider minuscule matters in grandiose patterns that look like splatter
a splat of molecules and wit and love and precious oracles
and who is to make sense of the chaos in between these unseen things
but they rather sit and ponder these minuscule materials

silently, quietly, considering
gently plucking and picking the similarities
across the scenery of that in which makes no sense
inhale exhale
consider the mean
of meanings
and what it even seems

silently, quickly, mentally
snapping back and forth between reality and fantasy behind the mask
that protects me from you
and that and which over there
literally what this mask represents is all they try to expel you from

because the world is masked in frowns and desire
covering smiles and laughter that naturally breaks free from our skulls and lungs
but in this world we wear a mask to play hide and seek
the game we play so  hopelessly as children
and then so unconsciously as adults
whatever that is
the mask on the world only grows larger in strength
and its terrifying
human existence
and the unknowns
but that's the mask the terror and the horror
is painted on the mask
because human existence is nothing but beautiful
and im trying with every rhyme
and every winding turn in this compilation of the non existent
to show you and you and me too that the infinite beauty of this life
is indescribable
is unimaginable
is intangible
and this infinite beauty i call life
is you
in everything because nothing beneath this mask is not you
the mask that hides the earth
because you, infinite beauty and soul are the earth are the world