Ink Sanity (Call me a Cuckoo)
I like the forgetting that is drawn when you move ink across a page,
It’s like spider’s tracks,
It’s like sanity.
I like how better it is to forcibly drain out fear than the clitter-clatter of the keyboard,
I like that it makes me feel like tabula rasa just was vandalized across this stupid sheet of paper.
It’s a release something like what I imagine graffiti must free like,
It’s such a bitter image sometimes, but hell, it’s still art.
I like feeling like I can do anything after I get it down,
I like the knowing that I have just broken a pact with the Devil,
I can lower my pen.
If I hated my past, I’d burn all of them,
I only ever ruined certain pages; I sincerely doubt I ever threw out entire journals,
Then again, I can’t always remember.
I no longer know where I left off, where I was born, or sometimes what day it is,
And there’s no way you can construe that as crazy,
Call it beautiful, I guess.
It’s like this enormous fabric of time finally caught up with me,
Let me be an honorary stitch in whatever you’re making God,
You can tell me at the end.
I look back and I look forward and what is the craziest is to be right here:
Fully riveted and real,
And yet in 1000 perpetual directions
That I love.
It couldn’t be flighty if it thinks like this,
The logic is too good to be true,
I learned that over time.
I just want to be a reflection of the mercy of God,
If I try to imagine how enormous it is by crucifying my doubts one by one, I’ll explode.
I have to just sit.
I like the looking glass I see in the cacophony of other’s reactions,
She doesn’t blink and yet
I can be a rock and never know it when I stare at the world,
And it’s not like there’s a long line of people gathering to tell me I was right.
I still like to play with my reflection even though I’m no longer 5,
I see it in other people’s eyes regardless of it comes angry or sad or blankly staring back at me.
The most conflicted souls are the ones that don’t know it,
It’s frightening to look into the eyes of someone who is truly unaware,
It’s apathy in the most nothing way,
It could keep you up at night.
I know from experience that numb is the worst kind of real,
You can be completely miserable, but feeling anything is a gift, trust me.
I like to sit very still,
So still I could hear the ticking of a clock,
One flew over the cuckoo’s nest,
What the hell is a cuckoo?
The million dollar question:
It would be foolproof if “crazy” wasn’t a roving definition.
My textbooks say it is one thing,
Experience says another,
My peers think it’s a riddle between binge drinking and your GPA,
And the eyes behind those who explain it frighten me.
You tell me.