You don't know her. You don't quite know insanity like I do.
I was a victim to her claw-like fingernails. I've been imbued.
You know you're hers when you begin to fear,
Not her or her laughter, but the visage in the mirror.
When you laugh, and it devolves into a mad shriek,
And then you fall dead silent, hearing a floorboard creak -
That's how you know that you are truly gone.
There's no continuity - no history to follow along.
The vessel and your character is all in shambles.
You're not coherent. All your words are rambles.
You're scared now. Hilarious. Can't you see?
Mad and manic - that's all you were meant to be.
Violent. Volatile. That's how they all see you.
They're scared. And be honest - you're scared too.
Feeble and finite, you tried to running, distinguishing right from wrong.
But you ended up right in her palm. It was society's plan all along.
YOU ARE READING
Rose, Prose, Poetry
PoetryExploring topics of love, limerence, grief, and everything in between, this is a collection of 100 poems written over a year. The works both reflect inner emotions and outward connections, attempting to capture the interconnected nature of the worl...
