We crave for things that don’t exist,
freedom, powers all in our fist.
Grave, insanity the word may be,
wickedness, pure and guile, I laugh in glee.
Sanity is calm, rational and boring,
Insanity is senseless, fickle and absorbing.
Profanity, I rather it is think not,
respect it, like we have all forgot.
perhaps we all seek to free,
the little man, the inner me.
but when you start to see bleeding nails,
from hands and feet and skin like scales,
you know its time, like i have rhymed,
to find the place until the clock has chimed.

This poem was actually a reply to someone’s when he wrote a poem in response of mine. I actually liked this one quite a bit.. xD

His poem:
Insanity–such a grave word
In such a place there’s obscenity
Obstucted by wickedness, pure and guile….

But by a hair’s breathe,
Is it really fair to call it grave when madness let’s you escape?
Is it really fair to call it wickedness when it let’s you free?
From the world of insanity,
What is real in the profanity?