Posts Tagged ‘Insanity’

I am not a glamourous man,
Not a Prince Charming,
More of a Grendel or Hyde,
Something akin to a blobfish in a shirt,
A weirdo,
An eccentric enemy of the state,

But when I place that crown upon my head,
That mad hatter headpiece,
Victorian fashion supreme,
I don’t care anymore,
I know that I’m finally me,
I’ll be able to grin,

With it comes the face paint,
A clown taking shape under its rim,
Madness coalescing with joy,
With this ensemble I can recover from normality,
But I fear it’d all be for naught,
If not for my top hat.

They tell me that I’m alright,
And I may well be,
But a cruel occasion has reared its head,
Joy seems to be held behind a veil,
I simply don’t feel it,
I’m not sad either,
Just hollow,

Pleasure is a memory,
One that feels like an echo,
One that I’m unsure really happened,
I do smile ear to ear,
But it’s just sketched on,
I have a painted smile,
From the palette of social expectation,

Sensations turned down like a volume control,
Hobbies become trials,
Food and drink taste like static,
Humans become boogeymen,
It’s a curious phenomenon,
Perhaps of a mind cracking,
Or a man broken by the world.

When the worlds teeth clamp too deep,
I retreat to my safe haven,
This fabric hovel,
Threads and strands as seedy as my form,
A veil against human elements,
It keeps me safe and secure,
A suit of tattered armour,
Acquired at the thrift store,

Clad in plum tabard,
I’m clear of any prying eyes,
Overzealous words,
And clasping hands,
It’s a simple thing,
To feel impervious,
But no force in this world can grant it,
Save for this haven of a textile.

I find myself shuffling through life,
Forced to play this card game again,
I’m exhausted,
I’m tapped out,
This game of life is using rules I don’t recognise,
Hands growing aches aplenty,
Card upon card ripped from my deck,
And I struggle to draw the vigour,

Life has all the cards,
Counting down in blacks and reds,
No kings and queens to be found,
Yet I still go digging for diamonds,
Beaten down by wicked clubs,
Only spades waiting for me at the end,
Hearts in my pupils as the lights fade,
No ace up these sleeves.

I’m a rotten clown,
All maggots and red noses,
I’m no good at making them laugh,
At least not in sincerity,

I’m a pitiable jester,
All rags and body odour,
Dressed up and ready to dance,
But the stands remain empty,

They tell me I need fibre in my diet,
It’s good for the gut they say,
But why care about their wellbeing,
When I’m led to hate my own guts?

Self hate is an artform,
And I’m something of a critic.

No my friend,
That is not what rock bottom is,
My soul dissents,
Rock bottom is not crying and screaming,
Not tearing down the walls,

Rock bottom is laying prone at night,
Thinking instead of sleeping,
A prison cell only we can see,

Rock bottom is staring stony-faced at work,
Into the face of a furious Karen,
And not hearing a single squawk,

Rock bottom is sitting in your underwear at 2am,
Stuffing your face full of treacle tart,
And not enjoying any of it,

Rock bottom is not aesthetically pleasing,
Not a work of art,
It is not convenient,
It is suffering,
It is purgatory.

After trying these new sweets,
Compliments of the white coats,
I find my thoughts lying in a swamp,
Those little candies turn my mind to slop,
A marsh under kaleidoscopic skies,
But it’s for the best they say,
It’s for the best,
I sit in this swamp in my mind,
Unaffected by the brisk swill,
My eyes rolling in slow motion,
Rolling slightly to the sides,
A curious blur over my eyes like plastic,
I feel no remorse,
No misery,
Nothing,
But it’s for the best.

Hope,
It’s said to shine,
To glitter in luminescent butterflies,
Shades of all prisms,
It’s a currency we spend to continue our days,
A penny a day keeps despair at bay,

Hope,
It’s said to glimmer,
A diamond in your minds eye,
A beacon in the black,
The light at the end of a morose tunnel,
A reason to tread through another day,

Of course ofttimes it’s just a cheap bulb,
A train at the end of that tunnel,
Or perhaps it’s a marksman’s scope,
A trick of the sun,
Hope and optimism are manmade farces,
Reality is rarely so idyllic.


I am a broken jaw,
A smashed nose,
I am a fetid wound,
An injury of a being,
I require correction,
Surgery of the self,
Something has gone wrong,
An unknown contagion has rendered me inhuman,

Put me under,
Gas to kill the monster,
These doctors in their gory aprons,
They will fix my inhumanity,
Scalpels to the various pieces of my soul,
Incisions and psychiatry,
When next my eyes reflect light,
Will I awaken as a man?

We’re a secret organisation,
We tell everybody,
This is a wacky institution,
The syndicate of silly,
And we’re always open,
So open the door and climb in the window,
Wipe your hat,
And hang up those moccasins,
There’s a brew boiling in the bath,
But to business my friend,
We’re all in the basement upstairs,

So best go up the down staircase,
Don’t trip,
These stairs bite you know,
We’ve been debating,
And arguing,
And debating about arguing,
We’re scholars of senselessness,
Humans to a man,
It’s all a bit silly,
That’s undeniable,
But that’s life in a nutshell.