One.
Solitude is death.
Poetry is death.
Giving yourself to art is death.
But there is resurrection.
In the aftermath, there is a glimmer of ever burning life
the ultimate fix that keeps the mad burning and the sane burning more.
Two.
The sane burn more for the sane are aware that there is madness somewhere.
The mad do not know for they are mad.
Three.
I wish I could remember how wonderful your words were but I always forget,
greatness fades from my lips, hanging inside my thoughts.
Four.
grand damns are given everyday
but you are still insignificant like yesterday.
End.
YOU ARE READING
Ramshackled Ants: Journal Entries
PoetryThese are journal entries. They're pretty sporadic and I don't add dates. Expect a lot of cryptic poetry and possible venting. I own this shit, don't steal it. [poetic copyright]
