Madness

Madness is a kind of sanity.

Indulge before the breaking point,

or risk shattering.

Risk a numb mind, an unfeeling heart,

and that's just to start.

Compulsions to stress and delusion,

wickedly depressing confusion,

lack of communication, denial

and suicidal musings bound

to confound and constrict

happiness within,

to the point of hurting yourself

merely to convince

yourself you are real,

between cycles which spin

and twist and spin and twist and

bite at your soul's infinite,

compel the muse to self-mutilate,

and hate the things it trusted to be

her inspiration's kiss, blissfully transcendent.

Instead, a proclivity to

d e a f n e s s to that which is

beautiful and rich, 

and a propensity for 

b l i n d n e s s to finding the 

panacea meant to cure all this.

Madness, that is.

Happiness in disguise.

Truly fulfilling. Truly ingenious, and oddly wise.

Indulge in this,

from time to time.

A harmless flight

from the chaos of society.

And once you've had your fill,

ease back down, and 

experience the thrill

of laughing at these maniacs

with sad faces and dilapidated lives,

knowing full and well, you are this, 

from time to time.

While you endure precisely the same pain,

but feel no remorse, and no shame;

acting not on your agony,

but the interpretation of its meaning.

Appreciating the contrasting shades,

cavorting amongst the haze,

the dazzling hues of all this.

Madness, that is.