Schizophrenia is a private cell
Reserved for just one in the depths of Hell,
A place without an exact location,
A damnation found in desperation

For an escape from feeling trapped inside
The spot you sought refuge and tried to hide
From vicious voices, all disembodied.
Solitude's precious, but also oddly

Does enough to make you feel too alone.
Perhaps you'll miss some voice's monotone
Droning that lectured, but still seemed to care,
Though some of those voices wrought your despair.

You mustn't forget some voices are real,
And yet, those can often cause your ordeals.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

This is not a poem
This is a painting
This is called modern art.

A shooting star shot me
with a 50. caliber of beauty
while I was standing guard
in the middle of my duty.

There I stood in silence
in the middle of the night.
Reminded of your smile
that is brighter than light.

Dreaming of those eyes
that illuminates my heart
and banish the gloom
that once tore me apart.

And as the shining sun rose
blooming beautifully slowly.
I thanked you once again
For not keeping me lonely.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

A lot of poets are smithing words
in the middle of the night.
A new tunnel of memories and feelings
are being made every second.
And as a poem written in blank letters.
I will soon be forgotten. Drowned.
In the ocean of  poetry.