• As I pick a strawberry from a tree, I look at the moon in the middle of noon and smile at the break in the sky.
    Words spawn from sewn lips and small rodents say, "Hello."
    I take a bite from the meat in my hand, and laugh at the humorless voices, wondering if dried eyes can cry.
    And sing the dry melody of bones from a flower, one that is so low.

    Crazy it seems,
    Of reality's seams,
    And eyes that are blind,
    Are the ones that seem to find.
    A maze with one hall,
    A house with no walls,
    And nothing left but broken shards,
    Strewn out like fumbled cards.

    It's fine, it's good,
    I find nothing wrong,
    But the melody's lost,
    To my favorite song.
    New ones have formed,
    And how wonderful they sing,
    And I push the dead lyrics,
    To bring back that one thing,

    I hope to conform,
    And agree to what was,
    But I can't, and I won't,
    And it's simply because:
    It's wrong,
    I have changed,
    I'm better,
    Not deranged.

    I will stay this way,
    And help guide the ones with sight,
    Whose blindness can sway,
    And just possibly might,
    End like this place
    That confuses to senses,
    And will play with the body,
    The heart and soul some expenses,

    Insane?
    No.
    Yes.
    What would it matter?
    Happiness forms, climbs like a latter,
    And though I can fall,
    I can climb again,
    And I'm glad for what I've given myself,
    What you've given me,
    And, isn't that all that should matter?
    Insane...
    Perhaps,
    But, I can say,
    I'm the sanest I know.