America: a perfect, perfect madness


You don’t lose.

And yet you seem to have lost control over everything,

even the places inside your head


You swear it wasn’t your choice.

You used to be so kind.


You've become as common as dirt.

And I can’t help to feel as though you're playing at real life instead of living it.


My heart twitches.

It aches.

It throbs.


With eyes as unforgiving as Sahara desert heat,

I see you.

Your hands tied like a sailor’s knot.


You're what I lost.

You're everything I ever wanted to be,

to have


I battle with what I know and what I feel on a daily.


But I know you.

I know you.

I know you like a prisoner comes to know his cell.


And while there’s nothing so painful, so corrosive, as suspicion,

I am a perfect, perfect madness.


I am unusual, tragic.

I am an empty ghost,

with a ticking time bomb for a heart,

just waiting to go off.  




This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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