I the sick poet

Thrown into a psychiatric word of infinite depth,by emotion of variant swing
My life is in scroll
With veins pumping ink of disease on rugged manuscript, attempting to cure the need for a friend to speak
I go through cycles of epic season
Not knowing the spring of dying thought from when it falls or somersault,and in the wake of winter
I reach deep to fetch an ounce of wisdom from the depth of my madness,
Hoping to recall what I never knew,from picture I never saw to places unexplored
I have no ears to lend,nor hearts to rely
So in pages I seek asylum,a home and a friend,
Bleeding my sorrow and tears on her blank and beautiful face.