Sitting here, on a severed tree, The essence of madness awakes in me. I see the door to oblivion, And I grab the knob and turn the key. Beyond the gate, I followed through, I saw the faces of those I knew, But they are not from the world I came, They only exist
Who am I to you that I matter so much? I understand that my presence does not provide much trust. I hear you speak of me, And not in good fashion. If my presence is that detestable, Why act like a chameleon? Who am I to you that you act so differently? It is
She hold her life in her hands as if it were weightless. Sitting on the edge of sadness and great peril, The windowsill, open and ushering in an autumn breeze. She places the gun to her head, Her hands move all on their own. Unconsciously, fingering the trigger. Ready to pass judgment upon her skull.
Forgotten lore from long ago, Reminded daily of where I flow. Encouraged daily by your presence; Established constantly by your essence. Many a time I wish I new, What it was, I was to do. Capture freedom or living slave? Rocket mounted but Misbehaved… Wicked style that pervades my empathy, Foolish folly all leads
Black… Dearest day that came from oblivion. Night was made. Which pierced the flesh with utter terror, Combing bare the soulless splendor of happiness long gone. Mindless staring, Hardly caring, Living softly upon the floor.
Welcome to the Psyche Ward Where am I? I had these episodes often. I would wake up, not knowing where I was or how I got there. I was fortunate, however, to always be found by a nurse. I never thought I could like a place like this… I remember the first day my parents
