MONSTERS AND MANIACS AND A MADWOMAN
They patrol the air at night, flying sorcerers, monstrous magicians.
Do they see through the cardboard walls of my roof miles above my head or yours?
Do they think they can penetrate my mind or the thoughts inside with their technology?
Each one is wrapped in a layer of an impenetrabale paranoia that even shiny machines can’t break.
But at other nights, I can hear the lions on the street, they are monsters with a mind of their own.
Yet still, monsters I have grown to accept, manifestations of my inner desires to roar like their engines.
And yet, I’m still thinking where are you, this is turning me into a maniac, an insanely pathetic madwoman.
The world really is now crumbling and were my hypotheses false, for I think the spinning wings are closer.
If it were really true, and that supposing I were a madwoman, in which every day I steeped my mind in mania,
Fear would be the last worry of my mind for I’d not fear shiny objects or the fact that they see me as a pawn,
But the fear only that I would never uncover the truth or the extent of my madness or even worse,
To discover that it was not the fear of limitation but actually the infinitude quality of it that taunted me.
The subscription to the sleepless nights, the disconnected dreams and the thin thread of time between night and dream.
Is it sin or failure of mine to tell the differnece between the sunshine and this haunting presence of the moon anymore?
They won’t read this, and if they do, they won’t understand this, they’ll recoil at any word I said…calling me crazy.
But even I don’t know if I listen or remember to what I say, when so much meaning has been erased into mere shavings.
The maniac underneath is more of a woman or man than any truth now, they call us crazy for speaking our minds.
But skepticism or paranoia does not go unnoticed not by me nor by the testimony of the objects of nature.
Drinking potions of truth commingled with fiction, I fear to speak the truth for will they pollute that too?
Turn it cotton candy colour and sprinkle me over with empty, venomous praises…they really want me to bow down.
You cannot call me crazy, call me the product of your toxicity and the sting of your judgement.
If everyone was like me, it would only have ended in two ways: in Inferno or in Paradise.
For I am not good like GOD, but at least I am not bad like the Devil.
I had to yet realise that the darkness was really a light so bright it crystallised my eyes into mirrors.
You cannot truly escape the realisation that hope within us and meaning is scarce.
I pondered on it and I couldn’t suppress it when I realised there really seemed to be little hope.
Sometimes I really need to know what people are thinking to confirm my suspicions.
But how, everyone has a right to their thoughts and a right to share them exclusively.
Night to night, I feel like I’m the only one who’s scared of the whirling helicopters.
If I died right now, I wouldn’t feel bad that I spent my last four years on sadness and bitterness.
When I finally have the passport to leave this earth, I’ll look past those who only pretend to love me.
If we’re all law-abiding citizens, then love doesn’t mean a thing, and if I can’t have it, then I’ll show myself out.
UNTITLED BY GREYSKIES