How Deep the Madn ess Lies - Depression in Poetry - Random Poetry

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Counting the number of tiles in the bathroom, up and down the world, fourteen steps at a time, one by one, trying to keep a deal with God.

Madness in a closet, whispers against the howling of the winds, a nightmare in technocolor, a flashing of a movie, tearing me apart, ripping my soul from the grime reality.

The idiots are walking around, like zombies on crack, yelling out, screaming out, I hide away from the madness, the voices inside my head, making me want to scream out, to poke out my mind.

Races on the ice field, come on, run with me, to fear not the trial but the outcome, the greatest murder is the murder of the soul, to murder oneself, by the hammers of their own words, against the steel, against the blade of self-doubt.

Making a deal, with Hell, running up that hill, bottom near the top, flipped, someone threw me a shovel and told me to start digging when I thought I had hit bottom.

Nowhere near bottom, been there before, running down the wrong side, laughing all the way, like a maniac, arms flapping trying to fly, feeling my feet leaving the ground, slowly rising, then to be pushed back to that reality, of life, a nightmare.

Sitting there, counting the number of tiles in the bathroom, 23, up to the wall, down to the ceiling, awash in florescent lights, reeking of cleaning fluids, human waste, bad memories, a song, reminder of a past life, a better life.

Let the madnesss run, in that marathon, to see if it can win?

Can it?

Will it?

The end...

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