Poetry Teeters On The Edge Of Insanity Novels & Stories

Who took only living insanity away from me. “Rara...” I scraped at the fraying edges of my sanity, searching for even the tiniest fragment to grasp onto. The relentless onslaught of a ravenous scarlet surge threatened to drown me in its merciless grip, mercilessly wearing away my lowering restraint.“Schmetterling, look at me.” Look at me so that I know there’s darkness more darker than inside my heart. Remind me why I hate you. Scrap my wounds and make me bleed till I know nothing but pain.

Not as something other. I believe there was a poem like that, by the same writer whose book I read at the pool last summer. I don't remember anything else about it. But it had to do with a desert. I wouldn't mind a desert swallowing me. I don't fear that oblivion, that edge of the horizon. "I highly doubt it," I reply flatly. Jack and Ves look hurt. But I'm not going to lie and say maybe. I am a liar. So maybe I should lie? But I have no integrity because I'm evil. So I don't have to be cohesive.

The Editors' algorithms flagged it as a repetitive glitch, but could not delete the profound, unsettling beauty of its imperfection. On another world, a philosopher, whose life's work was a logically airtight proof for universal contentment, abruptly published a single, nonsensical haiku about the loneliness of prime numbers. It spread through the population like a virus, not of disease, but of quiet, generative doubt.

he seethed. “Sore point?” I pushed, dancing on razor's edge. “But there is no point. Nothing. That's the meaning of it all.” Mist curled around my fingers as the water plummeted into darkness. The wicked desire to taunt him enticed my mind. He'd goaded me so many times before: surely, I was justified? “You're mad, you know,” I noted, taking the hand he offered me. His grip was iron. He steadied the small of my back. “Sometimes madness is a refuge.” His voice grated like metal chains. “Now stand, before I push you over the edge.”

* Betsy could no longer hold back her anger. Valerie clutched at her cheek in shock. I sneered. “Mom only has one son and he’s married to me. What makes you think he’ll just give an apartment away to you? “Do your fans know how shameless you really are behind the scenes, Valerie?” Valerie was furious and looked ready to fight. Betsy and I struggled with her, but in the chaos, I lost my balance and toppled backward, tumbling over the railing! “Naomi!”

They are all here, and they remind me of the rest of this, of the rest of what I am, of the rest of what I am becoming, of the rest of what I don’t want, don’t want to be. The wild edge of the night presses close, presses against my awareness, against the unbearable and fragile edge of my sanity, of my breath. The mountain ash forms a protective barrier, a lie, a comforting and soft and weak lie against the coming violence, the coming reality. It won’t hold. It never holds. But I will. I have to.

Extreme hunger, thirst, pain, weakness are all feelings I'm experiencing right now, plus I feel I'm going crazy, but I don't have the strength or will to fight to remain sane. I can feel myself slipping away slowly and can actually try to hold on longer, but I don't want to. It's better this way, peaceful. This dark silence haunts me as I sometimes hear her voice echoing in the room, scaring the shit out of me and I find myself laughing alone too, which is actually fun.

Stopping by the edge, he said, “somewhere you wouldn’t be able to escape and somewhere no one would ever find you.” I tensed up. This time, what I felt was real fear in its ugliest form. Sanely, I should be scared and try to escape, but I was insane. Because it was Kian who had abducted me and with him I’d never not be safe. “That poem…” The bed sunk a little as he placed his knees on the edge and climbed over me. “Did you mean it?” His brows were knit as if every word leaving his mouth was thoroughly thought of. I licked my lips, panting. I averted his intense gaze. That was the question I dreaded. Especially from his mouth.

WHETHER YOU ARRIVED AT THE BROKEN EDGE, AND HOW NEAR. WHETHER YOU PUT A HAND ON ANY PERSON OR ANY THING. WHO WAS AHEAD OF YOU. WHO WAS BEHIND YOU. Mara read it twice and set a finger on a word I had let through. "Arrived comes off. A wolf reads his answer off the shape of the asking, and you get back the word you handed him." I struck it and wrote the ask flat: whether he came to that edge at all, and how near, and nothing leaning on either.

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn