Madness of the Mind

Madness of the Mind

Madness lives in the mind.

It slips between thoughts,

creeps along the edges,

waits for the moment no one is watching.

It twists what you see,

turns familiar shapes into strangers,

and makes the quiet unbearable.

I feel it rising,

pressing behind my eyes,

pulling at the corners of memory,

mixing what is real with what is not,

until the line disappears,

until I cannot tell the difference

between the world outside

and the one inside me.

It carries voices,

sharp and soft,

laughing and crying at the same time,

whispering truths that are lies,

and lies that feel true.

It circles, restless,

never stopping,

never leaving space to breathe.

The madness of the mind is patient.

It waits for nights when sleep falters,

for hours when silence stretches too long.

It knows your fears,

your hidden thoughts,

the places where you think you are safe,

and it finds them all.

I walk through it,

hands out, careful,

but it bends the path,

folds the walls,

makes the floor uneven,

and I stumble

even when I try to hold steady.

It is not violent, not in the usual way,

but it devours in pieces,

small and constant,

biting at reason,

erasing certainty,

leaving only the pulse of its presence.

And yet, even in its weight,

there is a strange clarity.

I see patterns in the chaos,

shapes that should be invisible,

a depth that is terrifying

and alive,

and I cannot let it go.

Madness of the mind can’t forgive.

It does not end.

It bends, it twists,

it waits.

And I carry it,

fractured, fragile,

aware of every shadow,

every tremor,

every impossible echo

that is mine alone.