Nothing on my ceiling,
but the same white paint that it always had,
yet that's where I get the feeling,
I imagine the greats had,
alone in trying to understand,
an insane world,
and somewhat sad,
that we continue to treat each so bad,
so many thoughts like they were canned,
springing up and hurled,
feeling as though I've finally gone mad,
and the feeling is a burst,
and every word is as confused as the first.
YOU ARE READING
A Gaze Through My Reality-scope
PuisiA collection of 100 of my poetry works which are available on other sites, with a few exclusives.