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What is a poet, but a madman scribbling on walls Making tick marks; Counting one two three The syllables pass through his mind Like days pass through our lives The jacket slips on and his arms flail against it The jacket always represents something In his mind is that ceaseless humming The gray walls close in on him As the monotony of life settles in He peers through the window And into the void life screeches Into a flurry of action, Dear God beseeches Tick, tick . . . tock he makes his mark On life and walls and blows his prison God asks him to make life his mission If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Then life is in the shoulder To the wheel or against the wall Bursting until it finally falls The meter quickens and slows Depending on the mood or day Living life to keep monotony at bay With the jacket gone and mind swimming in song The dinner bell rings, cell door opens, with a clang-like gong The passion flurries about him as he tears his meager bedding He exits the cell, no longer a shut in And in sadness rips his clothes to mourn the loss of life It channels through his mind Give a madman paper and see what comes to light
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