By Peter McCarthy
Everything sets my soul on fire,
but my spirit kills the fire with water,
and the water is my brain and my thoughts.
A daily battle only one wish would be to handle or dismantle.
It’s an elusion and delusion and
a trap without a door.
To break free is to be me without misery or pain.
It’s all a game.
Writing is less insane than the brain
but fire spreads until it ends
and the soul is full with nowhere to go until it sparks again
and hope is seen in the light without a fight
but the demon returns and changes directions.
Which in return puts the fire out.
Kick and pout a loser again without my friends because of your desire to follow the fire of endless chaos in the brain.
Maybe I’m just truly insane.