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.