Break i n g 

I wear

My madness

Like a mask

And ask

The sands

Why my hands


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


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


Claiming in rashness

I swear it’s not sadness,


But madness.


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