The many voices in my head
reverberate and echo loud
memories and regrets long dead
that are buried in blackened shroud.
The voices scream, "You're the Devil,"
and prophesy the Anti-Christ.
They accuse me of all the evil
since mankind first became enticed.
I deny their demonic call
and find in the Apocalypse
that I'm the avenging Christ of all
whose advent is the world's eclipse.
"Not Anti-Christ!" I do reply.
"Not Devil," I begin to shriek,
"for the Lamb of the world am I--
the Lord's Savior for the meek!"
Sinners will know their final hour.
They will drown in their anguished cries
when I at last know my power
and expose all their wanton lies.
In this soft, padded cell of white
they watch and look on me with dread.
They view me as a deadly blight
and starve me with infected bread.
"Dear God! I hate these lousy drugs,"
I shout, "that they shoot in my ass!"
They hold me down, these stupid thugs--
injecting Thorazine real fast.
Why am I caged away by men
when I'm the Christ from God on high:
"Dear Lord," I pray, "let the heathen
know me whom the Scriptures prophesy?"
Once free again I'll be reborn,
lifted up in divine image;
I'll end man's need for crack and porn
and prepare him for my Marriage.
Hear my voice and see my vision!
The lost will burn without release
once they all know My religion--
only then will my Judgment cease.
A month later and officially discharged from the mental hospital, the Mad Poet writes:
To whomever it may concern, please forgive my embarrassing God complex above-expressed--. Thank you. The Mad Poet.