My Mind of Madness

What makes me tick?

Where to even begin?

How can I reply when I can’t rely

On my own mind.

Exactly what kind

Of question requires a response to complex

It perplexes me, thoughts so convex

Can’t express

What goes through my head

What makes me tick?

Could it be love?

Love for myself, for others,

Our love for each other

Surely isn’t all

Could you call upon my love

Of writing, of singing, of learning,

That which I am yearning for

Does it keep me sane?


Love isn’t a concept

I can pretend to understand

All it brought me was pain

Can I really complain?

But the answer’s so plain

Is it my curious mind?

It ticks like a clock

I can hear it sometimes



Gears grinding together

A fluid motion

Spread by my notions and devotions

A potion of life flowing though my veins

It’s just so plain

So ordinary


My thoughts are really a mess

I can’t express them in words

I stress the concave holes

The depression of my soul

Aggression without a goal

It’s madness

So maybe I don’t tick at all

My mind shows no timely fashion

It screams with a passion

Lashing out in my mind

No concept of time

Only chaos

So what makes me tick?

The question makes me sick

Because I know

I can never truly show

The crumbling chaos

The inevitable insanity

I seem to call

My Mind of Madness


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