I’m alone.
In this dark room.
Gasping for air.
Eyes closed.
Tears bleeding.
Sadness screaming.
Soundless agony.

At her first touch,
the flesh scattered
into ethereal fragments,
unchaining an immortal soul.

Crazy or not?

Is it odd to be crazy?
Or to think in a rhyme?
To believe in a world,
which is less than sublime.

To be random, impulsive,
or an uneven fixture.
To throw in self talking
just to finish the mixture.

Is it anger? Is it hate?
Are we like the whole race,
who would throw all the dirt
back into your face?

I don't trust or believe it.
I can't even conceive it.

If you told me a joke,
would I see round the lines?
Would I turn it around
and break the confines

of a freedom of spirit.
Or a hopeless recluse?
Do I win if I'm different?
Or do I always lose?

There's a question within me.
It hides in my muse.
Is it wrong to be crazy?
Is it wrong to be true?

dried leaves whimper
bullied by the wind

then thrown away
to a place they
will be crushed

disintegrated

stars scream
when they die

but we can’t hear them
until years later

I walk outside
to smell the night air

it smells like ice
it feels like spice
on my skin

another asteroid is
approaching

one day it will
not miss us