To be sure, I am only certain of a few things: the grass is green, but not always; the sky is at its prettiest in the midst of the grayest winter; one day I will die; and one day this will all make sense, even if it is only the realization that it will never make sense.

madness.

How does madness look? Is there a wildness that lingers around the iris of the eye --creeping into the blues or greens or browns to give insanity away? Is it a thing that can be pinpointed? Can it be touched or defined, held or seen? Is it a manner of speaking, the way a person stands --how they slouch their shoulders? Or, is it obvious from what they hold dear?

I believe in madness, in the way a person sees the world; no two could be the same. Where and how one does find faith is individual, a specific type of insanity that serves as an excuse to right our being here.

Is crazy just another way of dealing with existence? Are reality and imagination really separate entities? If I believe in science and you believe in God, what difference is there but the face we give creation?

Madness comes in sizes that vary as much as faces. Little bits of hilarity tucked into our minds, seeping out at times. It leaks like water through a sieve and you could never plug up all of the holes.

And what is it that makes us whole, but the entirety of our minds? And, minds are silly, tricky things. We never embrace them fully. Out of fear of who we are or could be? I don't know.

I have lived the majority of my life living inside my mind and when asked where my thoughts have taken me I waste such time explaining madness away.

I don't believe there could ever be such a reason, such a person, or such an occurrence that could ever convince me that a little bit of crazy could ever be a bad thing.

Everything that happens is from now on.

This year is about the change, the experience, the loves of my life, the friends, the family, the learning, the new things, the wondrous things life can bring me. I'm throwing away the person I always wanted to be and I'm just going to go with me. How I feel, how I dress, and learn, and think, and write, and love.

It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away

We're always compartmentalizing our lives --wanting everything so neat and organized it never just is. Everything is labeled and diagnosed, defined, and described, that I think we've lost the ability to see the beauty in the simplicity of existence.

"I do not understand, " cried she, "Where do my loves go? Where do I go? Where is my mind, my life, my cares? Does it not matter anymore? Why should I not matter? I have eyes to see and ears to hear, a mouth to speak, and a mind to think, and still it is not enough for you! For you or anyone else to let me love and be as God has always intended I be. For He made me. Not you. He and only He."

he had never dreamed in

color.

it was a lack that made

him feel awkward about

the vibrancy of

consciousness.

he had never dreamed in

color and he had

psychoanalyzed himself

enough to know

color made him

feel more restricted

than a world of

black and white.

Don't watch me

I

don't need eyes all over

my body.

Trusting you to save me

when all you do is see

only the things I never

want to

show.

found

Something tells me I'm going

to see a world of flames

burst at seams to allow a

million fireflies to light us

all up and again.

They are buzzing in my ears

telling me of all the secrets

of the universe.

We feel so lonely, but it's all

just aflame. He's watching us,

trying to make us believe.

He is articulate
and calculating;
Quips that pinch my heart.

fixed.

i wonder where we hide
or why
and when.
where the passions flee
and we're left with
a yearning
and we don't know how to fix it.

or ourselves.

i see it in the masses.
the masks
the characters
the way we try to live
so that no one sees the way it feels
to tamp ourselves into the ground.

and the ground does nothing
but
encase
us in mounds of dirt
of what the earth once was,

but living things don't matter much
when they're buried
underground.

it seems i have convinced myself the world is not my own. bees do not buzz for me and snow never falls where i tread. it seems i have convinced myself the world is not my own.

i walk outside of everyone. i see the entire world through a window i found, lying in dust in an attic where i used to be a part of something more. this window might be grimy and it might shatter when i lose the ability to be careful, but it is mine. at times, all i own.

and, the world does not want me, does not need me, never looks inside that window i live behind.

i never wished on stars - how pointless!

i've never seen a psychic or tore a wishbone in two. there is no point; the world has given me all it can manage.

Saddened, i have nothing to return.

but i walk. i walk so much in my mind, alone in travels, alone in thoughts, and the whispers softly come from low-hanging trees dipping down to touch my shoulders; they wish me luck.

115

Oh!
To listen, to judge,
to break these worlds apart.
To give focus to men
Who see without seeing
and have long forgotten
the world is for the
dreams
that cry and spark,
pitch and scream,
that shake it all apart.

oh, oh.

Do we go?
Do we?
You have to let me know - I don't
move all that
well
on my own.

Do you swear?
Do you?
Because, I need to know
we're there -
You can't just
Leave me all alone.

But could you?
You could
Wrap me up in
silhouettes - pretend I never was
And I will be gone.
I will.

don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic.

this

And to know.
Oh, to know just who
it is we try to be
when we're losing thoughts,
losing ourselves in "we."
And you're there.
You're there standing in the garden,
tall and innocent,
staring at me.
And I look at you.
I think we're wondering,
these thoughts we've lost
All tangled tight and broken
now it seems.
But, standing in that garden
I only remember "we."

less

inside lines of me.
outside lines,
it seems to be
that you, oh, you
never cease to let me go.
let me dream inside a dream
of drifting,
of unimaginable,
uninhibited existence.
never let me be.
i live behind closed eyes
and never get to be.

also, also.

only one way to find me
-living like a voice inside my own head.
that record stopped spinning,
collected dust so long ago,
taking up space on a shelf
I forgot I had.

40,000 Hz

We were making love
Under the stairs
To the flashing of fluorescence
And the sounds of spinning records,
Scratching memories into the disc
And hoping no one catches on.

Rupture.

What would you do
with all these pieces of me?
Please be innovative with your touch.
Don't paste them back together
in a crude attempt to recreate me.
Make me new
and whole
and lovely for your eyes to see.

I'd want to be nothing else.

like ribbons.

and when the rain comes heavy
i feel a little less empty--
fills up all the holes in my dam
that have been years in the breaking.