The insane rantings of my skull
render me paralysed;
I cannot move,
not at all,
held in madness' grip,
firm.

You think me a little crazy,
though acceptably so;
within the lines
drawn incisively
by those who claim to know
best.

What you see is just surface.
Below war rages
in deep magenta hue.
Call a doctor,
call a priest,
cry out for someone to help you
cope.