But I am not insane, if not so,
The art I am, if it be not so low,
The angels speak as much I am,
The gift they offer in as much a gram,
All my cares and worries slowly gone,
In a single instant my demon whom I don
Shall bequeath me honour this respite
Which despite my urge to put up fight
For greater honour than my parallel;
It is indeed a folly that I am not at level
To force my mind in the common masses,
Lest I too become as common as asses.
Most of the time I pretend to be sober;
It is thrilling; beautiful; if not a coma,
I am sought, and I am caught to see,
Lest if I talk I am but nought to be,
Then grief me here, my solemn grave,
It is I who can only be so proud deprave;
Mine eyes cast a seductive look beheld,
And I will inject insanity through assailed
Creases of fine skin and blood interwoven,
Then I myself am saint for Satan, his coven
In wrought despair might I’ve thunk more
The hours I pass soon cherish seconds sore
Whom nourish sunken tears in bloodied wipe,
When all humanity swept becomes my ripe.

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Life, Poetry
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