Really bad poetry? Ouch. It may be a raw unedited sketch but damn. That one hurt.
You want some bad, crazy poetry? Here's a favorite I wrote after 4 days without sleep.
Unbound
by Maximilian-Aurea, Aug 15, 2013, 11:16:13 PM
I stand in the street and look up at the moon,
Which would be pretty fine if it weren't 'round noon:
As I stare at the clouds and imagine the faces,
And name all the voices I hear echoing in my head
I suppose I must mention I'm just slightly off,
Like a blue tangerine or week-old Stroganoff.
As I follow the neighborhood cats all around,
And whisper in silence when no one's around.
I would tell you I'm drunk - but I'm just barely sane,
Mental waves off the Richter scale - to be quite plain.
Its a blast to consider the depth of a mind,
As replete with obsession and madness as mine!
As I prowl through the night with a blade in my hand,
Wondering just how I got this stark !@#$ing mad.
At the world; at myself; at the voice in my head:
At the face in the mirror I want !@#$ing dead,
I digress.
I confess I obsess over seeming alright,
As I groom, in my room, all these thoughts in my head:
As I lay - wrapped and bound - in a blanket in bed,
In my mind, in a thought, in a dream where I'm dead.
All these fragmented concepts among which I swim,
Sanguine horrors, manic-depressive and grim!
I suppose I'll surmise in my poem and prose,
That you've begun but to gradually dip your toes
In the depths of what I would consider the norm,
Commonplace in my world, convoluted and warm!
I inform, its a storm - of a form - in my head,
As I dance through the rain, through the drops I have bled.
As I crawl through the night, on my hands and my knees,
And the whirling wind sings silent songs to the trees;
I lay on the grass, fingering broken leaves,
'Cause I really just have nothing better to do
Late at night when insomnia knocks on the door,
To my heart, to my soul, when I'm out of control;
Where I flee from the nightmares I dread to behold,
When I wish I could cut out the memories cold
I awake in a sweat, shivering and upset,
Guess I dozed, I suppose, for a moment and yet;
Every morning I wake from the maelstrom within,
Just to find I'll descend the abyss yet again
So you see, mon Cherie, why they label me mad,
Its because of these mem'ries I'd rather not keep;
Or these thoughts, never bound by the chains of normality,
Or all of the ticks and strange habits I desperately flee...
I suppose I so often seem cold and composed,
I would hope not to hint at the thoughts I control;
Or the pain that I battle from morning 'til night,
And the soul-burning bloodlust I ache to release
I fight every moment to maintain composure,
I smile while I grimace from social exposure;
I'm really just trying to keep to myself,
Without losing my mind in the process
Pray tell,
Why is it you find yourself sitting right here,
As you march through my brain like you're parting a veil?
Hack away my neurons, the vines Amazonian,
Succulent mental veal saturated in the blood!
Of my friends and my enemies,
Memories plaguing me;
People I love that I wish would stop haunting me,
Words I suppose would be better unsaid
And the hellish nightmares that I flee in my head,
I would hope through these verses you've gained but a glimpse,
Of an unstructured madness I hide deep within;
From myself, from the world, from the ones I hold dear,
From my hopes, and my dreams, and the things that I fear
I assume it'd be best if I wrap all this up,
Like a corpse in a coffin; decayed into mush;
As they say about ashes; to ashes and dust,
And of necrotized limbs one must sever in trust
That such sickness might yet be contained in some form,
In a cradle of clouds, where I bottle the storms;
All the lights are still on, yet in spirit I'm dead,
But there's really - just quite - no one home in my head
