His madness spilled the words.
His words bled lunacy.
He loved writing his inner chaos.
Happy he was,
he wrote poems.
Sad he was,
he wrote himself.
His pen kept him sane
Though driven by insanity,
he ended up as his own masterpiece ...
He was like a notebook ...
He kept writing ...
He kept erasing the notebook ...
He kept shredding it ...
He kept burning it ...
Writing was his passion,
that kept him alive.
That made him to feel,
more like a human ...
But ... last night he broke his pen
And let the madness, the lunacy,
the ink, get dry ...............
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