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...

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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...

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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...

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In warmth I lay, the hearth aglow
the winter winds do softly blow
and with the moon’s pale silver light
I sink into the arms of silent night.
the blankets soft the room so still
a peaceful hush a restful thrill.
I close my eyes to dreams I flee
embraced in calm…...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

Continue reading...

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...

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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...

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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 
       ...

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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...

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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...

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Winnie, wild-eyed, went insane
and sang “Happy Birthday” in the rain, 
while she washed away her bloody pain.

Now all day long she sings that song,
she sings it loud, she sings it strong,
walled in where she does not belong.

For not unlike her maddened mind,
her bony body’s been...

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I. The Hour of Approach

The poem I was writing refused to end—  
it kept writing me.  
Blood didn't ink these lines—  
the ink bled me.  
Each stanza a hidden-hematoma  
across the white of nothingness.

Somewhere, midnight faltered,  
and I was...

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