I wear
My madness
Like a mask
And ask
The sands
Why my hands
Crumble
Like leaves.
My trees,
Dear queen,
Are evergreen.
Not even Winter’s wind
Can’t extinguish
My shining
Silver linings
Like diamonds
Hiding under
Every rhyme,
But I,
The writer,
Hold the pen
Tighter.
I find it harder
With every word
To come across like
I’m not absurd.
My mind is mad
Like the hatter,
So I water
My roots
With my blood
And my tears.
They flow out
From my veins
And into my eyes,
And down through
My fingers
To the pages,
They fly.
When it’s all said
And done,
I load up my gun,
With poetic bullets
And saber-toothed rhyme,
Then douse
The flames of my
Consciousness,
Claiming in rashness
I swear it’s not sadness,
Friend,
But madness.
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