Descent into madness
time and space melt into surreal
images that drip, drip, drop,
delusions that flare into reality
as reality fades into liquid illusion
ever mutating in an eternal cycle
of madness and clarity.
The killing fields are ripe and waiting,
do you have the balls to heed their call,
hurtling headlong into sanguine rivers of
cannibalistic hallucinations?
Endless eons spent languishing in this prison cell
trapped within the confines of my own
lunatic mind; the world fades, my sanity evades
me, I have nothing left of substance
nothing to keep me tethered to this existence.
The killing fields are ripe and waiting
do you have the balls to heed their call,
hurtling headlong into sanguine rivers of
cannibalistic hallucinations ?
The pressure builds, the tension throttles me
time has no hold upon the moment that stretches
taut until the SNAP reverberates inside
screaming to me with each staccato beat
like boot steps marching to apocalyptic doom.
The killing fields are ripe and waiting
do you have the balls to heed their call,
hurtling headlong into sanguine rivers of
cannibalistic hallucinations?
'Psychotic Breakdown' Copyright Patricia Schoenberger 1/22/11, all rights reserved worldwide.
time and space melt into surreal
images that drip, drip, drop,
delusions that flare into reality
as reality fades into liquid illusion
ever mutating in an eternal cycle
of madness and clarity.
The killing fields are ripe and waiting,
do you have the balls to heed their call,
hurtling headlong into sanguine rivers of
cannibalistic hallucinations?
Endless eons spent languishing in this prison cell
trapped within the confines of my own
lunatic mind; the world fades, my sanity evades
me, I have nothing left of substance
nothing to keep me tethered to this existence.
The killing fields are ripe and waiting
do you have the balls to heed their call,
hurtling headlong into sanguine rivers of
cannibalistic hallucinations ?
The pressure builds, the tension throttles me
time has no hold upon the moment that stretches
taut until the SNAP reverberates inside
screaming to me with each staccato beat
like boot steps marching to apocalyptic doom.
The killing fields are ripe and waiting
do you have the balls to heed their call,
hurtling headlong into sanguine rivers of
cannibalistic hallucinations?
'Psychotic Breakdown' Copyright Patricia Schoenberger 1/22/11, all rights reserved worldwide.
Hang in there, Jane. Thanks for commenting on my blog on my poem I wrote about missing me. You said you sometimes felt the same way. I was inspire by a poem of a poet named Stuart Dischell, a poem called "Days of Me." It made me realize I too miss the me I was recently, as recently as this past summer. I don't know that a lot of people can identify with the concept, but I am glad you can. Blessings to you!
ReplyDeleteYou writing has 'the balls'..I hope however that the 'killing fields' of life became something more tolerable..just a small patch of grass..a place to dip your toes now and again..would be good..it can happen now and again..Jae
ReplyDeleteMary~ Thanks! And you're welcome. I do sometimes feel that way, and I know how sad it can be to miss yourself. I'll have to check out that poem by Dischell. Blessings to you too!
ReplyDeletejaerose~ Thank you. It's really not all bad right now, but this poem was inspired by some really dark times in my life.
Have a wonderful Sunday, and thanks for the comments!
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