| Written: APR 7, 2001 |
Thoughts, feelings, they are all smeared,
Scrawled across the canvas of my mind.
No order from which they spring, Chaos births them,
And I must struggle to make them make sense.
Like the master painter, sometimes I seek to recreate times,
Cutting away portions, only to leave blank space below.
Pure and innocent gray matter, left up to me,
To fill in as I first should have done, with skill and wisdom.
Not unlike the genius killers, evil thoughts shroud my workspace,
Yet I carry on, as if these thoughts have no true bearing.
Self, the form of me often changes from day to day,
Perhaps it is my being manic, or mayhap a maniac, who is to say?
Darkest clouds infringe in the gray landscapes,
Marking my feelings in dreary blackness.
If linked with others, mind would be the dark domains,
Rife with loss and self-hatred that is so common in others.
The Seven Sins are now maxims of society,
Interwoven into everyday life, not frowned upon.
Ignore it and it doesn’t exist they say,
But when the ignored becomes predator where do they run?
The Sins of my past haunt the finely constructed landscapes,
Roaming my mind in hideous etherealness, tainting all about them.
Shall I purge myself, I know not, and wouldn’t know where to start,
Perhaps it is good they stay, and haunt, and keep me in the truth.
On some days I even bear light, pure, like when a child,
But still tainted, as Jack is typically the one to show me the way.
Lighting my path to bliss with brown shaded lights,
The kind that change your vision and cause you to stumble.
Like so many of my people, the dark liquid we crave cause pain,
Yet at the same time, it delivers us from the awful truths of the day.
The night beckons us, calls us in whispers, “Come my children,
Dance with us, like in the days of old”, and it warms you within.
It is false warmth, soon to be replaced by pain and loss,
Once more the truth of our existence becomes apparent.
Yet onward we continue, like an old man made young,
Forgetting his pains, only to have them viciously attack the next day.
All these I use to color my canvas, the gray bleakness,
I seek to change canvases, yet paints of loss may not be enough.
Could I get help, neigh, for my problems are my own,
I wish not to taint others, they may visit the depressing scene.
Luckily for them, however, they need not live there.
For me it is as I have become, lost in darkness.
Embraced by misery and pains unknown.
Can Sanity last on the Canvas of my Mind?
