Innately, there is a method to my melancholy madness, my mess of musings, my masterful (mysterious, maniacal?) thoughts that mesh with my feelings.
But must I explain? May I explain? Because with all my might, I’m not so sure I’ll ever get out my message.
A message, you ask? There’s always a message with me, translated through melodies, my mania, you see?
But is that beautiful? Must it be? Because my mind questions.
Was madness ever meant to be beautiful, to evoke feeling? Or simply madness? Is my insatiable insanity meant for all of this?
I swear, I have a method, but I falter as I ponder, and pray as I panic, because you can’t simply love me, someone so manic and broken.
So there comes the madness, once again, twisting and pulling my trembling limbs, too afraid to touch the sunlight that is inches from my fingertips.
Yet I’m so ready to pounce into that light, to let my flesh burn with a smile on my face.
You see me, I’ve gone simply crazy, it is what I am, a quivering being with bones of ice and blood of fire. And must I say, do I melt, and melt, and melt inside…every moment. I’m my own Titanic, ready to massacre myself in the waters of my insides as I crash into my frigid bones, sinking deeper into my mess of an ocean.
I beg this world to swim in my madness, but also plead for it not to dive into my waters. I fear that they will drown inside me and I’ll have to carry their swollen bodies forever.
So I ask – is there a method, a method to this madness? For I have no answer other than the hurricane inside me.