Poetry Teeters On The Edge Of Insanity Novels & Stories

I give up my vision which is ultraviolet at a research conference while poetry as morning rain blooms on the glass of storefronts. I give up my song which is going to prepare me to disappear for another six months. I give up my fingers which climb like vines to touch the skin in which I shall never be found.

It's that same silent persona that refuses to tell him about my poems, that part that said i liked cooking when i can't boil an egg right. It's that same version of me that watches from the sidelines, the part that has said i-told-you-so so many times, it's now cliche. That quiet profile that is painfully aware of the fact that anyone that comes too close to me dies. We were sparks of light, dancing, twirling, brightly, in perfect symphonic twists of alchemy. We were something in between flames of fire and the ashes of a smoke. Something in between infatuation and obsession, in between Juliet's romeo and Luscious' cookie.

It's been written to death. "No, June is immortal," cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr Carpenter have it all his own way. But Mr Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it. "'I weary of the hungry world'--what do you know of the hungry world?--you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids--but it is hungry. Ode to Winter--the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems--ha! 'Spring will not forget'--that's a good line--the only good line in it. H'm'm--Wanderings--

I stare out the window and I only assume that it’s late afternoon from the pristine sky. When my hope of help dashes, I surge to my feet. Tears fill my vision, blurring my path. With an agonizing howl, I thrash around, gather the sheets in my hands and send it spinning across the floor. Now, I’m teetering on the edge of insanity. This….this...whole thing drives me insane. My chest heaves…. Unable to control it again, I wail into the air, I cry and shout. I rush across the room…to the mirror standing opposite me and I stare at myself. The person glaring back at me is a girl broken….shattered.

One asks, leaning his arms against the icy metal. “It’s not that I want to die.” I hiccup, tears falling from my lashes and freezing against my cheeks. “It’s just that I don’t want to live if this is all life has to offer… and I’m afraid that this is truly all there is for me. I have no reason to believe otherwise.” I shake my head forlornly, “they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. So I would be crazy to think I can keep meeting the sun each morning without inviting more heartache… wouldn’t I?”

He finally realized that I was serious! "Cecilia… left?" he muttered in a daze. Panic washed over him. A wave of unprecedented, crushing panic engulfed him in an instant. "No!" Alexander shoved his chair aside and rushed out of the office like a madman!

The moon is high and bright in the sky and I can see the surrounding buildings and the trees at the edge of the woods clearly. There’s nothing out there, but I still can’t shake the feeling of being watched. No matter how hard I scan the moon drenched landscape, searching for anything out of place, a movement. A flicker of light. A figure where there shouldn’t be one. There’s nothing to be seen. I exhale, forcing myself to look away. They say madness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Maybe I am just imagining things and the weight of everything that’s happened is finally catching up to me.

Emon disappears into the history section, but I drift toward the poetry aisle, my sanctuary. I trail my fingers along the spines. Familiar names. Ancient pain in tidy lines. I pick up a volume of Rilke and flip it open at random. > “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” My throat tightens. I close the book and put it back. My mark aches. A soft, rhythmic throb that pulses in time with something far away. Edward. I can feel his emotions like shadows under my skin, he’s restless. Searching. Maybe even… sad.

Many can enter altered states of consciousness. Collective madness is present in the different scenarios of life, socially, politically, religiously and in our way of thinking. But there is a big difference in those degrees of insanity. The madness of a few who are misunderstood for the moment, will be the sanity of the future. In a wonderful book by the great poet Khalil Gibran, he praises that beautiful madness that does not limit the imagination of those who are capable of seeing beyond the physical senses and proudly expresses: "They call me the madman ... ". Because of that blessed madness, it is that we still remain in time and all is not lost. Fantastic love and neural craving will fi

“Make him remember everything he did. Make him doubt every step he takes. Make the world close in until he can’t breathe.” I liked the shape of that. Ruthless, surgical. I leaned forward. “We start small. Sanity frays from the edges before it snaps. We push.”