Sta.sh
I don't think I'm of a sound mind,
A hint of madness renders me blind.
It's a minor symptom of aberration,
It creeps in times of affliction.
But it is growing into a disease,
My mind it likes much to tease.
It pulls me into such an attempt,
That deserves much contempt.
It often triggers an anger,
One as sharp as a dagger.
Or wakes those blue devils,
Who urge me death pills.
It turns my mind anarchic,
My thoughts gush, chaotic.
It impels me to grab a knife,
And put an end to a life.
To myself I often talk,
In the night alone I walk.
A slumber it won't allow me,
In peace it won't let me be.
I see people long dead,
I sit weeping in dread.
I hide under my blanket,
From the monsters inside the closet.
I sometimes write on the walls,
Scream wildly in empty halls.
Laugh like a maniacal psycho,
At some events of ages ago.
I have but only one wish,
That of ceasing my anguish.
But it has become a habit,
It's too late for a cure to it.
It devours me every day,
It brings me somber dismay.
I ought to be in a madhouse,
Ere in further despair I douse.
No psychiatrist can deliver me,
No witchery can set me free.
For I know that it's the devil,
That will be within me still.
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