The Same Sick Stories

Sunnygrove again. I don't know what it is but writing about insanity comes very easily to me. But think about it; isn't that what creativity often is? A controlled insanity?
Anyway, this is for a story that takes place in a mental hospital which is, to put it mildly, haunted.
The lines in italics are coming from whatever psycho doctor is currently tormenting the narrator

Incomprehensible, shrieking, choking
Bony arms grasping, stroking, groping
Above becomes below
The walls pulse and breathe
Reflections distort and contort
Dead ideas grieve

Tar is flooding my lungs
And climbing all the rungs
On this ladder erected with patience, charm
You'll do me harm
It stains my grainy eyes
Writes disgusting lullabies
The same sick stories we heard
Without knowing why
(You know why)

You miss the transition
Insanity building its hungry hive
Electricity thrums, delusions become
Wholly, impossibly alive

Pick apart logic with tainted magic
(So tragic)
Prickling, tickling, psychosomatic
Roaring blood and whimpering nonsense
Unwashed thoughts in a decaying attic
Disciplinarians stab poisonous spines
Against my exposed and aching sides
Prying open all defenses, all pretenses
(Come play in the real world, precious
And I will meet you there)

Swapped with another, a hideous herder
Of lambs you tried to save from murder
Voices curse, hearts burst, and bad dreams
Get a whole lot worse
(You have no idea how much)

Limbs of ink extending, pretending
That they belong, that they aren't wrong
They scrawl my name on the floor
(But its the ceiling now)
Naming pathos they adore

Snakes in the boat, spiders in the drain
Blood in the sink, no one to blame
Stirred into soup, electrified brain
The customer's always right

You cage these demons with syringes gleaming
(Just a pinch)
With protocols and Code Greys and men who say
Its a lost cause and it never goes away
Its a lie, and you're done clipping my wings
I'm done, I'm gone
And from the pit I will be drawn

The End

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