Oft do thoughts trickle through my idle mind.
These plays by the soul is what for it's designed.
Or so thought I. Entertaining the figments
Entertaining, remembering, my soul forments.
Stories I wish never were or at least never
Was ever a part of. But they're mine to keep forever.
Never cherished the light as I did the dark.
When puppies slept and the doggies would bark.
A mouse through the thickets, while she'd move,
Got swooped at once. Death from above.
It was an owl. It didn't hoot. It just killed a mother
But this was for her owlets so ... Necessary ******?
The paradoxes that seem weirdly against what's moral.
Like the tale of the spider in the ******.
I digress far, and the night is passing fast.
Pains of the future, which comes but never lasts.
Sprites from the past which stay and never die.
The long night puts many to sleep but keeps open my eyes.
As my thoughts dwell, the tears swell within my lids.
Intrepid imaginations assault my heart. Courage what it needs.
I think why it is that we hurt and we feel.
The scars asking me, do we ever heal?
Can't help the noise or the silence or the madness.
The grieving soul isn't oblivious of it's vastness.
The scars ask again. Did we ever feel?
The incomplete stories that my heartbeats seal.
Threatening to be revealed with every breath.
Too sharp to be left bare, like a sword in it's sheath.
The tales you sought for me to tell you.
Will only prove your fears come true.
Bones under putrid skin and open sores.
Maggots festering and oozing from the pores.
Dead ones in the open fields, vultures hovering.
Hyenas on the corpses, jeering, devouring.
Jackals eagerly waiting their turn. The aftermath of war.
Grey matter seeping through an eye the bird tore
Out. Dream of war, little soldier, and thus demystify
The mysteries of demise and my lullaby.

Each night I am kept awake
by this timed ticking madness
embedded in my skull
reminding me of who I could have been,
motion picture madness,
blood in the back of my throat madness,
breaking at the sight of dawn madness,
teeth bending at the notion of truth madness,
lungs filling with sadness
and beginning to drown
madness,
in every cell of my body
madness,
breaking my own heart
in the middle of another night
waiting for the sun to shine
madness

an August rich with wanting
in September my leaves changed colors
and I fell into madness.

I tell you
reckless rebellion sprouts
upon a hopeless soil
where
every scrawny arm
itself grasps,
its own kin smothers.

but they need not know
of the madness we house

still, tired I am
of moping around.
tired as well of doubts
so,
hollow us albeit,
let the sapling grow;
bloom and all and on—
till a stout, angry fuel it makes

then burn we may
and ashen too.
and I know you’re scared
curse this valour— oh,
curse we, yet
fail to topple
this palace of cards.

cards: silenced tremors.

fight, we fight the tyrant air
that holds firm our wings
and will let not go

and I know you’re scared

any clumsy wind may bare for us
our own restraining snakes—
stink of mud, of rot and ash.
but they have not yet.
not yet.

let grow this mad and
burning tree
let grow, let grow
for when you rot, I
willingly, foolishly
mimic

Be reborn, departed Shakespeare
for now is truly the time to quench
your perpetual attraction to madness.

Threatened by the cruel hounds
of distemper and heated atmospheres,
our broken trusts and unhealthy emotions
set a luxurious bed for extravagant madness.

Be freed from truth, beloved bard
and unbound by complex thought
- relish in weakening America’s
obsessional social dysfunction.

Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Sane anymore.

I am full of feelings
Everywhere
All the time
Sometimes they are so powerful
They consume me alive
Materialize Madness
Incite my moral decline

A very good friend of mine once told me that
I sought meaning in everything,
that I found melancholy intoxicating.
She said we are like complete opposites,
but what she does not know
I also share some of her traits.

I bled through the words I could not utter,
stranded on oh-so-many-nights
I wish I was dead.
I sculpted my pain among the stanzas
and strangers’ bed.
I craved their wandering hands on my naked skin,
mapped every inch of it,
and let them make a shelter out of the shattered pieces,
but what she does not know,
I still sit alone with loneliness sleeping softly on my lap,
he often brings a backpack full of doubts,
and stories about the almost lovers.
What she does not know,
as heavy as it seems, there is a haunting
peaceful feeling
every time he is around,
knowing he couldn’t hurt me more
than just being with him.

What she does not know,
I still seek meaning in everything,
asking big questions, that no one has the answer of,
and I still find melancholy very much intoxicating,
that I often wander to the what-ifs world,
discovering the what should have been and could have been.
What she does not know,
that I am too in a constant battle to tear down
the invisible walls I’m surrounded with.