Best Madness Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Categories:
madness, god, life,
Form:
Sestina
MOONLIGHT MADNESS
The moon falls out like a secret above the frisky clouds
Daylight and night the stars come in crowds
Like a glistening diamond, I can't stop staring
Mixed-up in that moment that has no time sharing
Holding onto the tip of the tree limbs like a puppeteer
I can hear the words the moon whispers into my ear
TONIGHT!
I will illuminate into a world only I know of
My very own little secret sparkling island getaway
A world where beauty hides the beast
I'll be the only exile under a sunless night feast
TONIGHT!
I'm going to pass on all my secrets away---
As I have on my dreaming moonlit gear
Comfort upon this mundane wonder, astronomical sphere.
TONIGHT!
I looked one last time at the mooned night
I will close my eyes, and find myself in a box kite flight.
TONIGHT!
I will lay myself down to sleep,
Not allowing my imagination to rinse off with wild sheep
Like a Nightingale, I rather sit and serenade myself to sleep
With the refreshing thought, the moon is like the pillow I keep
In this mad, mad world!
The moon seems to be the only object that holds it's sanity
Arousing me with it's inner peace and spirituality
Categories:
madness, adventure, art, beauty, love,
Form:
Rhyme
The cold hand of Winter swiftly approaches
Its breath etches frost on my windowpanes
Nearer my threshold, Death now encroaches
Blood is slowly chilling inside my frail veins
Reaper's wild winds pelts hail on my roof
His breath etches frost on my windowpanes
Snowdrifts climb higher on the sills in reproof
Huddled in a corner, my fear is spurred
Reaper's wild winds pelts hail on my roof
This room is the chamber where I'll be interred
On the threshold of madness, I'm losing grip
Huddled in a corner, my fear is spurred
Winter's hand has caused a temperature dip
I flinch at the sound of a knock on my door
On the threshold of madness, I'm losing grip
Terror incites me to curse what I abhor
The cold hand of Winter swiftly approaches
I flinch at the sound of a knock on my door
Nearer my threshold, Death now encroaches
August 17, 2017
Categories:
madness, death, fear,
Form:
Terzanelle
Must money make man mad?
Money makes man mad
Meanwhile, man made money
Must millions make man mad?
Massive money many mention
Mighty materials, man’s main mandate
Making many mentally magnetic
Mean money might mar man
Con-men crave catching cash consistently
Committing crimes continuously
Consequently, they’re caught, captured, killed
While we wonder where we’re
We want wealth which withers
When we wouldn’t wake
We wouldn’t work without weighing ways
When we weigh madness with mildness
We would work with wisdom
When we work wisely,
We would win
MUSE: AKINDELE OLUWAJIMI
Categories:
madness, corruption, evil, money,
Form:
Alliteration
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Categories:
madness, lovegod, light, god, life,
Form:
Sestina
Ever wrote a sequel
To a poem about
The road of dead bodies
that you drove upon?
I dont Think So^^
O. Yeah im laughing
At such a radical idea
Thats not registerd yet
Into naiive-Like brain cells
Yeah! Am laughing^^
Wish I could just throw
My smile on that kid
That lay stone cold
Hand over ears even in death
Died of the noises...
Not laughing anymore?
Thought so
I just laid there staring
Right ontop of him
Dead silence...
I panicked
shoved my fist in his jaw
I felt his bone crunch
Now he doesnt have a screaming face
Wow....
You think thats deep?
The guy right next to the kid
Was his dad
They kept him alive to watch
As his son burned
then became death
and soon a fossil
And when they chunk this place again
He will be dust
...His father
He was right there
...To watch
Now read those last three lines
Again
In Slow Mo
Read it and weep
Maybe the tears could drown
A father who is still there to watch
And spare him of the "Madness"
"Well,if its what you want to call it.
I mean you can call it unfair
Inhumane
Insane
But its just Mad-ness"
Categories:
madness, war
Form:
Blank verse
You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all.
Robin Williams - Dead poets society
Poets are born,
not manufactured.
The moment when life said:
"Recite a poem for me."
Verses began to flow,
like moonlight shimmering
upon tides rushing to the shore.
Tongue spoke in silent tones,
in a language forgotten in time.
Emotions that had been internally burning
bled a scripted sadness of sentimental scents. .
A perpetual periodical anthology of adversity,
hidden behind an enigmatic encrypted haiku,
about a lost soul's suffering in chains,
caged within the nonsense of syllables.
An unmetered sonnet,
where the world saw common rhymes,
as unforgivable idiotic crimes.
Not all metaphors make sense.
Still the quill yearned for meaning.
To write in evergreen sanguine blessings,
creating a vocabulary reminiscent
of blossoming phraseology -
but words can be misinterpreted.
When eyes lie with fake flattery,
this gifted madness you call poetry,
is like a curse for a wordsmith.
The mind becomes bewildered,
drifting in heavy hues of longing lavenders,
wondering where the spring flowers are.
Some remain content with withering thoughts,
but my ink is immortal in sowing perennial seeds.
Categories:
madness, appreciation, perspective, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Categories:
madness, anxiety, art, depression, suicide,
Form:
Sestina
Brilliance and Madness
Howard Robard Hughes
Famously rich recluse
Dreams led him to the lap of luxury
Followed by nightmarish mysophobic OCD
Rich playboy aviator Howard Hughes
With movie starlets kept himself amused
Dated Katherine Hepburn
Bette Davis took her turn
And still more, which kept the tabloids confused
Born Howard Robard Hughes to a rich family
With English, Welsh and French Huguenot ancestry
Enjoyed a successful multi-faceted business career
But aviation and aerospace were his favorite frontier
Categories:
madness, celebrity, film, flying, mental
Form:
Clerihew
Monday Morning Madness
Just because the morning starts
like the morning straight from hell,
and the little one is screaming
and you need a magic spell,
just because you burned the pancakes
and the bacon, well it’s crisp,
do not rant and rave and stutter
or you’ll acquire a nasty lisp!
If your husband’s little habits
drive you batty, do not fret,
but don’t fill his cup with poison;
well, perhaps at least not yet!
If the dog destroyed your curtains
and your mother-in-law is back,
and you hurt your precious pinky
when you tried to nail a tack,
do not turn suicidal
and do not give up, no way!
After all it’s just the morning!
You still have the whole damn day!
Categories:
madness, children, family, humor, husband,
Form:
Rhyme
My ordinary life -
like the plain stretching across the region of my birth,
has been for the most part
rather smooth.
Though sometimes on my path, I’d encounter hills,
they were few and were not difficult
to get over.
One day on my travels when I was still young
I came across a man who, like a majestic mountain,
would take my breath away.
He captured my attention completely,
distracting me from all the normal things
my plain life had entailed.
When he smiled, it was as if
the sun were peeking over him
in golden splendor.
Madly in love with him I fell,
and every day I worshiped at the mountain.
This was a short phase in my life -
a time of pure enchantment but also woe.
I behaved as if I were a stream, a babbling school girl
murmuring with joy for a while
as I meandered
the mountain’s pleasant aspects,
but one day my meandering came to a halt.
Coming to a cliff’s edge, I became a waterfall
frothy with madness as
I plunged
to the rocks below.
Picking myself up, I had to turn my back
to the glorious mountain.
A final look at him, and I saw the red sun sinking
into June’s cool night.
Finding my way back to the plain, I trudged.
At the mountains of madness, I’d known something -
something I had foolishly mistaken for love.
Other mountains wait there, for me, for you,
for almost anyone who desires to find one.
But since my later summer years and in my fall,
I’ve kept walking on the plain,
for it is truly, after all,
my heart land.
for the But it was not real Poetry Contest of Lewis Raynes
Categories:
madness, lost love,
Form:
Free verse
Raw is the madness
bathing me in crimson dreams -
those dreams surreal
in which I battle
all of the unholy beasts
I cannot fight against
when I am sane . . .
for sanity binds me
to the ground
so that in my wakened state
I can’t manage to rise up
as mighty as a warrior
against the many dragrons
spewing their demonic fire
across a woken land.
Reality's new normality
conceals the beasts' true nature
making them seem harmless
even making them seem good
Nonetheless
I see them . . . I hear them . . .
I smell their disgusting stench
I wait for Slumber Land to carry me
to the place where wicked dragons
easily are recognized
There I can be the real me
who I am down deep inside;
I draw my sword
and seething with raw madness
I slash away
Categories:
madness, dream,
Form:
Free verse
Walking through the darkness
of the madness in my mind
I stumble on the pieces
of the twisted thoughts I find
I think about the way I am
and what I'll never be
as I sort through the wreckage
of what once was known as me
Searching for the sunshine
I am drowning in the rain
submerged in black emotion
I'm infused with all it's pain
There is no way I can escape
this hell inside my head
and though I am still breathing
I've become the living dead
In my heart I'm grieving
for a life I'll never know
I'm begging for my freedom
as I feel my madness grow
I am praying for redemption
as I choke on bitter tears
but I cannot find forgiveness
as I'm swallowed by my fears
I wonder if they see it
when they look into my eyes
I'm torn apart and weakened
as in silence my heart cries
and all the feelings that I hold
are suffocating me
as they cut and claw my mind
until they're all I see
Time is rushing by me
I am tired, growing old
the winds of change are blowing
and their bite is harsh and cold
I keep fighting for my freedom
but my freedom I won't find
as long as I am living
in the madness of my mind
Living with my madness
is the only life I know
and so much time is wasted
as my useless teardrops flow
I don't need to see tomorrow
should it be just like today
while I'm living in my madness
I'm not living anyway
Note: This was written after a bout with my depression and all is well! To quote a dear,
beloved friend, I am “Making lemonade”! Love, Robin
Categories:
madness, depression, introspectionheart, heart, life,
Form:
Quatrain
I think I saw one
I move a little closer
there’s another one
nose hair can be disgusting
Nikko should I pull them out?
*Nikko's body part
of choice nose hair lol*
Categories:
madness, funny, imaginationhair,
Form:
Tanka
I will not allow madness
Nor will I allow anesthesia
This place will end up in a mess
You won`t be affected by amnesia
As you will never forget this life-changing experience
Learn from your errors, that's just common sense
Whosoever sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind
You shall not forget to all who you have sinned
For you won't leave the extend of my madness with coma
Take for granted you'll be altered by trauma
You`ll be judged for each of your sins
Your corpse will be disposed in several bins
You are just a puppet
Used for entertainment
You can do infinite wishes
You will not leave this place with just a couple stitches
Categories:
madness, abuse, anger, betrayal, dark,
Form:
Rhyme