Crazy Writers Poem by Carly Almonde

i wish this was a dream,
that i could wake up and it would be over,
but instead the pinching of my flesh proves this is true,
that i'm alive, i am experiencing this.
what is this thing you ask?
i don't feel like saying.
no it's not life or death,
and maybe in a few years time it'll all be over.
but right now it's like a thorn ripping through me.
don't be concerned, don't begin to worry.
it's nothing really, nothing at all.
my imagination is playing tricks on me,
As it usually does.
for is it not mandatory for a writer to become crazy?
alas that is our fate is it not?

but don't call the writer crazy, for the writer spins the truth.
it's the world that has become crazy in all of it's pagan rituals.
don't blame the truth seekers, blame yourselves.
for if your eyes are closed, then why should we not try and open them?

all of this is nonsense,
so don't you worry,
go on with your normal tasks,
take sanctuary in the things around you,
go on deceiving yourself.
but know that someday,
your sins,
will catch up to you.