Posted in of the soul, poetry



they say she’s crazy
they say she’s mad
“stay away from that lady”
they say she’s bad

she sees things no one else does,
hears strange voices;
louder than a hush

her very eyes give shape to fear
her soul- naked…
in caskets of her tears

she keeps seeing corpses
wandering in streets
lurking… lurking… haunting deep

“take your medicine” urged his father
“don’t let this pain devour you;
no more no further”

“no”– she refuses…
gritted teeth and clenched fists,
“no, papa” she refuses…

“Cause if I get better-
If I get better…
I’ll miss you.”

You see…
she… is not crazy
she… is not mad
she’s just a loving lady
and she… isn’t bad

“She’s just…

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Hi! I'm Rose. I fancy myself a poet sometimes... But really, I'm just a dreamer- a wonder wanderer. Words are my photo albums.

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