Brick-walled Writings

Somewhere in a rip-roaring fashion,
I want to rant and bleed all over paper-
The way Poe did in drunken night stupors with demons flailing around his head,
And the way Van Gogh broke stroke to bleed out his warfare inside.

Living in a Stepford World
Where people go missing.
In a toxic dream, where truth will get you burned...
And ALWAYS,
A head turned-
Eyes on the person who knows..
"This isn't Reality".

If I could, I would burn this world down.
If it meant nothing,
And we could undo the still left to become.

I can imagine how every life, a prison cell.
Stuffing it all away,
All away,
So most of us stop seeing each other..
And til most of us are drowning alone in denials
Just to make
Another day.

I don't really know why it's worth it.
It's really not. Even the good;
Not when dreams are so free from pain.

...not when DREAMS
Are so free
From pain.