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"He's either a madman or a poet."

"Can't I be both?"

"You already are."
Late night conversations are weird yee yee
John Glenn Sep 6
there I was, closing my eyes
hearing what they couldn't see
voices as cold as the night
she was an old woman yesterday
a young girl today,
an old maniacal man tomorrow
apparitions and entities
with whispers so loud
images fetter me with dread
and as I try to cup my hands
unto my ears, the ears of a madman,
and stretch my blanket
over my cold feet and curled up body,
kick, and scream, and wail,
and cry for help
in the dark of night,
I am silenced by such fears
I've seen the nasty places
not with the eyes
but through my ears
I am not schizophrenic but God knows how horrible it must be to be one.
I wonder if you'll miss the way I would stop for turtles in the road,
Or the way the tears would roll down my cheeks,
Maybe when I would choke on the silence while you slept beside me.
I wonder if the words that would fall out of my mouth,
Trip over my lips,
Spill out into the space between us,
Would ever reach your ears.
I suffer every night because of these thoughts,
The thoughts you will never hear.
Every argument we get into I give up almost immediately,
Tired of the same anger that plagues me,
The same thoughts that unwind themselves like lost twine.
I do not know whether to give up on myself,
To tell you I want more from his turmoil,
I want the reassurance you cannot give me.
I torture myself over you.
Why must I write like a madman,
Desperate to release frustration,
To release anything.
I am tired,
So very tired,
Of doubting myself,
Of doubting you.
Unfortunately, this is what I do.
Brynn S Jan 9
Circles of chalk mend thy breakage
Follow the whisper to know end
Propose a query that might find no answer
Choose to follow that path of the madman send
Silent they wake with their ears tipped slight
Shake the feathers off your shoulders
Wrap tight in hand the skeletal kite
Flight is not with a heavy heart;
But with those who choose to jump first
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018

that links begins at the oldest of my poems here, which are nearing
the point of no return, maybe only because people cant tell me that hate them here, but more likely,
because some of of ya'll liked 'em writ, ye might like 'em said.
A link Please share
Peter B Aug 2018
Someone please take the gun from him,
before he kills
others or himself.

He isn't mad,
this gun is mad,
this gun can make him mad.

The problem is, nobody cares.

They only care,
when it's too late.
Persephone Aug 2018
Wander into my mind.
I dare you.
You can go left into the north where the pool of mayhem swims.
Or up into the undergrowth known for the drawings of the mad man.
Choose to drift sideways and discover you will the drips of knowledge from the domain of hell.
Or take a chance over that way in my very own misfit lane.  
If you are lucky to locate the memory tree knock six times and she will welcome you if only I deem you worthy.
Vale Luna Jun 2018
The scrawlings of a madman
Stuck in my head
They aren't meant to be seen
And certainly not read
Insanity through carvings
The life that I led
For the period of time
That I lived my life dead
Black rivers of nonsense
Like the blood that I shed
The words on the paper
Hang by a thread

The scrawlings of a madman
Slain in my bed
Poisonous ink
My appetite fed
Just ****** and repeated
My limp body spread
Crystal white sheets
Now dripping with red
Ripped open too wide
From the places I bled
The logical lunacy
Fills me with dread

The scrawlings of a madman
All wisdom has fled
Turn the next page
And forget what I said
It seems I forgot
The demons I wed
The scrawlings of a madman
Came from my head.
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