MadnessI'd write miles of roads full
with things that don't matter
to the usual passer by,
yet touch an outsider with the context;
I'd write around and on top of the stones
with the blood spilled by us, women;
I'd write eternally about things
that trouble minds through the course of centuries
and then I'd spit on it all
and drown myself in the deepest ocean.
For what's a mind to do when
it relates to words, not voices?
So much meaning put behind an act of treason,
so much thoughts flow out and run like mad men,
but at the end of the day,
when the sunshine is gone
and you lie in the heat with your back torn in pieces:
No one will care, not even your heartache
will shed a tear or spare a glimpse
after you've been thrown into the earth.
And here I am standing on top of me,
seeing the flesh and the muscles fall off,
they threw so much earth on me, yet I still see
the structure of worms and their little bodies;
Jumped over the fences that were too high for me,
ran through the forests of thorns,
despising those who couldn't dare to live.
Crawled in dirt, in mud, in blue skies,
so what happens to that strong will?
Always rushing to live, no stops, no warning signs,
death seems such a relieve.
And what on earth are these passions that drive me
forth, forth, forth with a leather whip?
the grip becomes painful whenever I'm free to live:
to forget the dreams, the peaks - they slap me
back in to order, into the fastest stream!
Trying to fit in to normal desires,
I desire the same and it's making me tired -
to be made for something in particular,
serving some awkward creator,
but nature is stronger than doubts,
so there's time to take another slap
these time leaving nothing but a bleeding cheek;
Time to wake up and run, run, run
like mad men do, escaping through windows,
as if they were fools:
there goes the field -
let's call it madness..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 690 times
Written on 2007-04-26 at 16:41
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