Crazy People Overload

[Truerenigma]

You sit and talk to people that crawl up your cranial walls;
they let you chat and never walk away.
Sometimes you shout out to them with a kinda' out-loud call.
You're never sure they hear you; they don't say.

A kid gets steered around you by his momma smokin' dope;
she knows about the crowd inside your brain. is the kid smokin dope? Or his momma?
...and the kid he stares and smiles at you, with truth he sees as a hope
that he hasn't been conditioned to disclaim.

His reconstructed adult says it's rude to laugh at folk
who look at you with crazy in their eyes.
So he learns to stay away from nearly everyone and jokes
that there's only him who's sane...but it's all lies.

I knew when it all started; people told me I was fine,
I figured there was something goin' to hell. ? Maybe I'm just not birdy enough.
If I said to ma I loved her, she would cry most everytime,
and about that time I guessed... but didn't tell.

Schoolkids I sat next to, took to walking round in groups if you must cut the"a" off of round, then you might as well cut the "g" from "Walkin", or give me an apostrophe.
but they'd walk around me, soon as cross the street.
I tried to talk about it but my words got stuck in loops
and pretty soon I'd no one left to meet. ahh, the old loop trap

The room I lived in emptied as new friends filled up my mind.
Then momma left or died, nobody said.
Sure, I met a lot of people who pretended they were kind
but I only trusted those inside my head.

Life's pages stick together so each turn is like a year
but it doesn't seems to matter anyway.
The book is never ending and the words are all unclear
so now I write my own down every day.

I listen hard to hear myself but sometimes, when it's dark,
a million, million voices talk to me. gazillion
I answer back to all of them, walking in the park,
and what I say, I call my poetry. do you call your poetry from the home phone? Or on your cellphone?

tectak
2013
(billy's comment. "So the sites overloaded with crazy people" )

---

As Bruce Willis didn't quite say: "I see crazy people". Or was it "I say dead people". Or what dead people say to me, I call my poetry. Buggers.

---

You sit and talk to people that crawl up your cranial walls;
they let you chat and never walk away.
Sometimes you shout out to them with a kinda' out-loud call.
You're never sure they hear you; they don't say.

A kid gets steered around you by his momma smokin' dope;
she knows about the crowd inside your brain.
...and the kid he stares and smiles at you, with truth he sees as a hope
that he hasn't been conditioned to disclaim.

His reconstructed adult says it's rude to laugh at folk
who look at you with crazy in their eyes.
So he learns to stay away from nearly everyone and jokes
that there's only him who's sane...but it's all lies.

I knew when it all started; people told me I was fine,
I figured there was something goin' to hell.
If I said to ma I loved her, she would cry most everytime,
and about that time I guessed... but didn't tell.

Schoolkids I sat next to, took to walking round in groups
but they walked around me, soon as cross the street.
I tried to talk about it but my words got stuck in loops
and pretty soon I'd no one left to meet.

The room I lived in emptied as new friends filled up my mind.
Then momma left or died, nobody said.
Sure, I met a lot of people who pretended they were kind
but I only trusted those inside my head.

Life's pages stick together so each turn is like a year
but it doesn't seems to matter anyway.
The book is never ending and the words are all unclear
so now I write my own down every day.

I listen hard to hear myself but sometimes, when it's dark,
a million, million voices talk to me.
I answer back to all of them, walking in the park,
and what I say, I call my poetry.

tectak
2013
(billy's comment. "So the sites overloaded with crazy people" )

This is so good tec, omg it's so good it hurts, but it'd be easier to crit in the arse