Memoirs of a Bughouse

She have many, yet had none.
She have them, yet had no one.
Is she bothered? No, just pondered.
She's used to going under,
Doesn't mind now if she continues threading in covers.

Understood she is, not by a single soul,
Intricacies of mind, not known as it continues to prowl;
A kaleidoscope it is on the inside, a cement block it facades.
Wasted and faded, her memory, synapses, reactions, comes overrated.
Decisions and emotions almost always collided;
Yet, she loved just how she was created.

Madly insane, weirdly crafted,
Eccentric, stoic, just the right amount of being anhedonic.
Sexually sedated, lusting she was elated
Too much of it was her vice,
Thus it surely comes with a price.

She often walks slowly,
Against the fast paced world, you'll find her lonely.
She tried to run a couple of times,
To wear the face the norm assigns.

All she wanted was to be with nature,
She thought it to be the cure for her endless failures.
She just feels good, to be grounded for good;
One with the trees, the rivers and the seas.
'The mountain calls',
That's what she always recalls.

You'll never hear her song,
As if there's nothing wrong.
She's quiet, and a wannabe poet,
Contains tongue inside her pocket.
Her smile, sometimes she fakes it,
So lonely days she was able to make it.

Half of her day, she takes refuge,
In sleep, she finds life.
The stories not of everlasting happiness nor promising love,
Just one that makes her feel alive.
There comes a time, when dreaming, was the only thing that saved her,
From the demons that consumed her sober. 
She closed her eyes for hours during the day,
Escaping, hoping not to be their prey.

At night, it creeps in to feast,
And breaks on her sleep;
She's too drained to fight and scream,
At the end she gives in.
Her soul hungers for justice,
Her eyes dried of daily demise.

In silence, she cried a river,
Before she breaks into slumber.
For years, months, days and hours,
All nights just seems to break her,
Yet, she hopes she'll come out, stronger than ever.

She calls for her kindred spirit,
Not sure just correctly how to do it.
Still, she whispers to the winds,
Of her hopes and her dreams.

Though they're oceans apart,
Maybe with own lovers in their hearts,
She knows one day they'll meet;
To talk and not to cheat.
Likewise, trusting if not in this life time.
On another, she'll find herself in his arm.

120618