we are all born mad. some remain so.

Cease the circus act
Thy random innocent knife-throwing
For thou knowst not the pain
That thy blunt self-justified sighs
Can inflict upon

God showed thee
Not a face
Nor a body
But a single heart that now the soul ebbs from
Thou art but just man
And like the moon
Can never have a constant hold on
His ideals

The heart is worn and weary
Thus can never blame
Thy earnest eyes
And Mother's creations

Only to wither alone
Which proves to be
A merciful balm of death
Than the blade
Of words and love juxtaposed
A concotion of pain