Asylum.

Losing my mind was like swallowing hot coals—it stole the words from off my tongue. A treason like no other, even though we anticipate that it will burn. Embers lit up my mouth from the inside, like walls of a cavern lit entirely by torch. 

When my brain malfunctioned, my grasp on reality suddenly became loose. Unraveling like serotonin silly string until all that remained was one big knot. As my sanity escapes, all that was left is a pile on the floor of mess. 

I lose track of time as I obsess about an idea that evolves into branches that make up a nest. Twigs of delusion turn into entire trees when subjected to neglect. Dopamine twice a day does nothing to improve my self-respect.

I search the seafloor for something familiar to swim alongside with, making my way upstream until I can tell fish apart from their tailfins. Saved crocodile tears in a sandcastle—oysters reveal pearls of oxytocin alabaster.
It is finding yourself in quicksand sinking faster than a shotgun romance. A pair of rusting lock and key attached to some bridge in Prozac, France.

The metallic taste of mania often enlists the assistance of anxiety, especially when steel-spangled spices offer little in the way of variety. Pepper was better than ever back when salt was still secret, my pulse becomes a clock who only measures what's too soon to be revealed yet. Ticking thyme listens as time talks of things it wishes it had done. 

One arm's uneven the other's at odds, this unstable season's unreasonably hot. Going crazy was easier once I'd been driven there before, who said mental illness always left a suicide note scratched into stubborn cellar doors. 

On my way back to the real world, silence was the only schoolmate I knew I could trust, for even when she was pin drop quiet, her heart still sighed the heaviest. This Bipolar beauty was wickedly brilliant in battling her own serpentine uncertainty, hissing wildly as she slithered back to a sense of reptilian sobriety. 

Sheroism.

If Coco Chanel played by the rules herself
then there would be no iconic Number Five,
but ever since this mademoiselle raised Hell,
the fashion world was fiercely brought to life.

Indira Gandhi's ruthlessness
is how she rewrote India's history,
waging war for independence,
she was a state of emergency.

Dancing her way to the top of the charts,
Madonna's world tours sold out at every stop.
She used sex as a weapon to open her heart,
until she became the reigning queen of pop.

Refusing to slave another day, 
Harriet Tubman was determined to be free,
this renegade helped others run away,
on a route to the north country.

Some women prefer chains and oppression, 
so they silently accept all that is unfair.
This is why the good girls go to Heaven, 
but the bad girls go everywhere.

Nefarious.

I suppose even the most nefarious entities are desperate for an identity, 

creating their own corroded communities through engaging in impunity.

Erecting idols of their enemies & slandering their friends, 

scrutinizing all the others when it should be them under the lens. 

Delusion, like psychosis, has dust mites thinking they're superior;

as they sit and compare battle scars although they're dazed & delirious. 

Their obsession with made up offenses dines on them like a predator,

until a patchwork of paranoia peers back from every reflection.

You wanted to curse others, 

now you got it back times three, 

abandoned by your own mother, 

now all you have left is me. 

Reader beware: 

you're long overdue for a scare. 

Surprise, you spooky bitch, 

bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

Cockroaches possess the common sense to evade certain death, 

and yet these criminals lack the discipline to not end up behind bars again. 

Pitiful, y'all look like idiots—and then, 

you continue burning all the candles at both ends.

Overdose on your internal ugliness—

your looks could kill like Fentanyl.

Poison's preferred over your name;

even arsenic has more appeal.

Your sticks and stones playground name-calling games are primitive and lame, 

as you engage in hide and seek-like child's play, I get at you with grenades. 

Then for my grand finale, I shower you in fireworks and flames, 

as Satan's symphony welcomes you into your grave. 

The Earth erupted in uproarious applause, 

as soon as it was liberated of you & all your flaws,

the world finally rejoiced, and knew peace

once your screams echoed from Gambia, 

all the way to Greece.

I bring brilliance while you obsess about irrelevant events, 

you and your network of invalids couldn't even win dumpster dive pageants. 

As I observe you from the upper decks and echelons, you sink; I stay afloat.

You tear down completely innocent allies around you in accusation, 

isn't it time you took accountability for your own reputation? 

If you build it they will come to tear it down then ask for more, 

is it any wonder the wicked wail they're victims above all?

x