Psyche of the Dark Poet

Sanity is an unsympathetic creature lurking in our blind spots.
If the dusky rays of Gothic art can’t cast out this relentless foe,
Then our gift of imagination and will of expressionism
will ignite its stalking shadow with a vengeance.

I’m proud to be of another psyche.
Without it, would we write
with such metaphorical beauty?
I think not.

In fact,
all these words
would be ordinary.
The hell with ordinary!

I want my head to whirl around without the sense
of what is in front or in back of me.
Can a head spin 360 degrees?
Imagination could.

It can turn this head again and again
until it screws off its spine and lands by my feet.
Even then, I’m not spitting dirt,
I’m chewing what the world has discarded,

Whether it be taboo or the unspeakable,
it belongs to me.
My words, my feelings, my thoughts,
there’s no defined script for imagination.

Latch the hooks into our mouths
with what you think is true
but they will not open for you
or in a way in which you’d perceive.

The distinct silhouette of reality will be within sight,
the metaphor, however;
will have a shadow which blends
into the most potent of light.

Wherever the creature may lie,
its white eyes illuminated in some dark shadow.
Now and again
its claws sting the outer reaches of my body.