The Insects Fancy Themselves A Neurotic Crown
And I itch.
Stung by the wasp
of an angry depression.
A chokehold
by the serpent of insanity.
It all goes so dark.
Plunged into a madness
as I cannot see.
Divided by these realities.
Sinking deep into the pitfalls
of a Hell
that only traumas could produce.
Tied tight to my bed,
I am frozen in a catatonic state –
forced to swallow deep
the memories of long ago.
I open my mouth to scream –
I am mute,
though I can hear it sailing in my head;
taunting me like a resentful banshee.
Erupting into a tune
only the fallen can hear.
Trapped inside.
And I cry.
For no one can ever grasp the pain
that I try so hard to hide.
A smile so bold –
I try to be in style
so that my story will be told.
For it is Hell, my friend –
to be in such torture
that no one else can see.
Bitten by the bug
of a mental disease –
I am so very, very lost inside.
And those insects,
those life-taking leeches that seal shut my pores –
they poison the child-like daydreams I ride.
And, as always,
lays empty the seat right next to me.
