Insanity - Poem by Levi Robertson
Four white walls,
and a pretty white coat took my body, with nobody I am alone, and a loan must be repaid, but I seek no vengeance, because insanity is the blessing in disguise that keeps me sane, exploring my whole mind, a rabbit hole I find takes me beyond imagination to limits beyond limitations, searching for the inner me I lose myself until I find out who I am.
Three blue pills,
made to heal my mind, really steal my mind, so to keep what's mine I keep in mind that to keep my mind I need to creep behind the radar, because a healthy mind needs no healing, so the pills are safely stored under my tongue which audibly brings to shore the deepest regions of my mind, so, this mind of mine splits my tongue in two. One willing to share a piece of its mind at any given time, which follows close behind instincts of mine whom are suppressed by the other tongue which keeps peace at mind knowing every piece of my mind will never be left behind.
Two late to escape,
I leave anyway, any day I want, escaping anyway I can I leave this place. Even when I cant, a part of me remains in wonder land, amazed I remain to question if my remains remain in this room when my mind and soul escape through the graven image of the rabbit hole in my head. Anyway, what about when I'm dead? I constantly wonder where my remains will land when I leave this earth to journey into the next, my mind has already crossed halfway, I remain to wonder if there is anyway one day my brain and body will meet, do they have a way to bring me halfway to catch up to where my mind remains? Locked away my body remains here while my mind explores the deepest oceans of unknown, my mind will not remain restrained by the steal door that steals more than my mind is aware of
One day at a time,
I plot my escape, the climax to a rising action with no chance of fruition, a hopeless ambition for my body. The protagonist of the plot that is the story of my life, the story in which I write, as I sit on the third story of this four walled hell questioning what is right, Sitting in my white walled cell, I wait for the tapping, the gentle rapping on my cell’s steel door. The tale tell start to my insanity. So I can start thinking what I think they thought I think. That my thoughts are real, and that my artificial art is not a thought but what is here, but who officially decides the official line that divides insanity and artificial, and when is art official anyway?
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