the madness
screams
so loudly
i can only murmur
it isn’t real
among the
rigorous slamming
of doors in my brain
everyone hates me
i am grotesque
sickening
a pathetic little fool
worthy only of pity

the anxieties
frolic through
my porous veneer
a paperthin membrane
filled with helium
bouncing on mania
in a tempest of razors
waiting for the first
blade to pierce
unleashing hell down
upon creation

each set back sets off
a fresh tsunami of
inwardly directed savagery
my hands bleeding
from a hundred little cuts
my heart hemorrhaging
insipid ballads fired
from a shaky bow
to fall flaccidly
always missing their mark
as the sparrows circle
in a tornado of shrill
testimonials to madness

i am not okay
okay enough to smear
the walls with gore
and call it art
okay enough to smear
my agonies on the page
knowing no one cares
about the fluctuations
ripping an idiot assunder
murmuring it isn’t real
no longer certain
what is or is not
with any real certainty