is there a method to your madness
some point to your plan
a logical set of reasons
why you always have drink in hand

is it used to sooth you
take off the hardened edge
or to escape the voices
that rattle in your head

do you find you need it more these days
than it ever needed you
how long now have you lost count
at just one drink or two

do you wake up and beg forgiveness
from the wretched night before
do you know how long this has gone on
or have you stopped keeping score

in this method to your madness
the point in your plan
your illogical set of reasons
why you hold spilled drink in hand

Her heart was full of bookmarks
From those who had once loved her pages,
But not enough to finish what they had started.

I have yet to know a self I can call my own,
wandering through these bodies
the way one would try on clothes
but far deeper
than this analogy could ever dig,
I live with these identities.

I fall for them
the way lovers do in autumn,
keen that the coming winter
will leave me yearning
for the comfort of another,
but no sooner do the bells of spring
begin to ring in summer air
does the necessity of this comfort fade.
The temptation of sweeter fruit
hangs above me in the orchard shade
and an affluenza of potential
almost coerces me to stay.

Though no self have ever felt my own
I know within my heart, within my blood
and in my bones, more than anything
I am compelled to grow
towards entropy and complexity,
ascending, never settling at any plateau
a silverback drumming his barrel chest
and roaring into the void of the valley below
“What is next for me!”

and the answer is silence
(I should have known)