I was told to write about March madness,

but all my mind mustered

was the madness I felt in March.

 

The Egyptians cured illness by bleeding the patient,

opening solitary veins, letting them speak and scream.

For weeks, my words have been latent,

poetry being mean, keeping me keen.

 

My eyes, ears, nose and tongue silenced,

wearing a bridle and bit so tight,

my vision is narrowed,

my consciousness light.

 

The pages I promised to fill, remain clean,

whilst I will for drops of blood to bleed,

into the blush blue lines, all pristine.

Only madness has been freed.

 

 

The Egyptians cured illness by bleeding the patient,

yet, nothing vibrant or pulsing leaves,

just fear is nascent,

as empty atoms continue to fill space with no reprieve.

 

I withdraw into myself; broken but not bloody,

Life leaves through the crack between the hinges,

slips beneath the door to meet somebody

else, it flees whilst it’s mistress flinches.

 

Anxiety I am struggling to stomach,

Confidence I am attempting to mimic,

as it is only poetry I wish to vomit,

to fill a page with rhythm and lyric.

 

I was told to write about March madness,

but all my mind mustered

was the madness I felt in March.

 

 

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