One may ask,
For my best poem.
None can be given
As the best one
Is still being written,

Each one I write is great
Until another is made

Round & round
In circles I go
An Endless cycle
That finally was gone.

After that,
What is there left,
Just an empty bottle.

A few dropplets,
Are only left,
Remains of what was,
And no clue of what will be.

Monotony is the key,
To my own Insanity.

In a moment of an act,
A cruel memory fogged my sight,
As my acting started to fade
My past emotions started to crawl out,
I started walking and trembling,
My eyes wide open,
I did not always see what was in front of me,
My past came back to reality
and mixed up with the act.
It ****** me up completely,
causing me to not breath
Panic took over,
And tears made their way out,
When they asked what happened,
No words could come out,
I only blutterd out bits of words,
With no meaning to their ears.
As out of fear I couldn't speak a word,
Until I was calmed down with another one's touch.

My imagination,
Is a mishap
Of my own creation.

Due to it,
I tend to lose myself in thoughts,
And forget about reality,

As in dreams,
I can create my happiness,
To escape the cruel reality.