It’s called insanity
And it differs from your cute little perception of reality
With fleeting thoughts and hidden whispers
Psychotic dreadnaughts of a corrupted actuality.

Broken judgment, lost timing and a keen sense of placement.
There’s a smudge of straightening
In the balance beam towards meaningful sentiments.

It’s 4am and the poem’s not finished
Forgotten in the sediment
The screening process dies.

Any word worth its weight in gold
Seeps onto the sheet as a bold endeavor.
Sentences get awkward like
Web-toed club-footed birds of a single feather.

He’s trying to be edgy
Like the corners of a desk.

The flow gets clotted
Blood cells and cholesterol.

His veins of creativity
Are fat, stained and blotted.
-
He’s left like the rest.