What am I? 

Why can’t I stay sane,

why can I not keep my filthy thoughts

inside of my head,

why do they manifest in horrid malformations,

why, God why?

“What hands are here?
Hah! They pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.”

How Macbeth rings in sync with

my mind lies beyond my grasp,

a fictitious madman reeking of guilt at spilled blood,

whilst I lay in rest at night wondering

if I am awash with the blood of my mistakes,

my only wound a broken sanity,

oh how old and broken my soul is.

I cannot help but wonder how

my thoughts ring true through the

pen of Shakespeare,

a backwards prediction of event now unfolding,

mad boy kills father, boy killed, cut.

Final scene.

Grim lovers,

fates intertwined, destinies wrapped around the neck of a bottle

on Juliet’s rose lips,

a dance on the blade of a knife ends in misstep,

and the life of lost love crumble.

Insanity dive-bombs into death,

self-harm a bridge leading to lives abridged,

but this is not the cliffhanger I want

blossoming from this throat,

I wish worlds of words,

a conflagration of divine syllables

crashing through nerve cells

mutilated cast into iron prison cells,

bars barring words, battered and broken

beat brains back to crazy like a chicken beheaded,

for they cannot escape, driven to madness by voices

spoken ever in a silent shout,

while I am kept voiceless

by the passerby who wonder if

they are to call the cops when I reply into silent air.