Madness I have entered you.
Any logic that I once possessed has fled my soul.
You are my existence.
Within you I feed on illusions.
But reality seems like the illusion
or maybe I only wish it to be so.
See, I cannot discern reality from illusion?
This is madness! Torture.
Time has died and been birthed in this state.
Evolution of the being might occur.
But do I want to evolve?
How long can I survive in this state.
Can I ever leave you?
Can I ever dare to control you, madness?
Beautiful. I hope that you struggle well.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…If you only knew how well I struggle and how unable I am to express myself to others, you might not say that the poem is beautiful but instead an utter disgrace and most terrifyingly ugly.
Ohh, I like it. 
What was on your mind when you wrote it?
What was on my mind when I wrote it?-Nothing!, which is my problem.
The more engaging question to have asked me would have been what was I feeling or as xanderman mind like to hear, what was on my heart. But I do not know. Only that I have this strange feeling, if I may even call it that, for another, which I fear greatly. I do not know what to make of it or how to explain it or how I might even go about controling it. I just don’t know what to do, except write poetry or do art. (And right now writing poetry is the easiest thing I can do right now since I am forced, by myself of course, to stay in front of the computer so that I may finish some papers and stories for my exams.)