Sitting at my desk in my room Trying to compose, create, light Spilling only the blackest ink You're not real, or am I? Head held in my hands Your fingers in my eyes I don't even cry, out, tears Crimson sliding down my cheeks You can't feel, can I? A scream rising up Deep within my throat, hoarse Red-gold eyes laugh, devilish, comfort A scalpel drawing lines, on my arms Wait?, how did?, I can't remember Can't focus on what's, reality Driven, mad, haunted, maybe. . . This is all, a dream?, or a movie? Am I acting?, on this stage, black Sitting here, never, ever alone Voices whispering sweet Death Sweetest Hell, screaming, taunting Separating them, and you, from Me?, but just who, am I? I can't remember, comprehend the differences Between, them, you, and me? A sickening laugh, full of, madness My own?, or yours?, or theirs? Nothing, makes, any sense, how can it? Spinning, spinning, spinning, constant I still don't really know what to say about this poem, I wrote it at 1 in the morning in October. I'm on a website were I submit my poetry and sometimes I'll just click on the 'submit art' button and start typing. I never really put thought into the things I write when I do that I just let my fingers fly across the keyboard. I suppose if I had to say something about it I'd say that I imagine that this is what going insane(really insane) feels like.