I bleed poetry
Poe could only write about
And breathe wisdom
Erasmus could only speak of

I see patterns
Pascal could only calculate
And make connections
Sherlock Holmes could only
Wish he made them too

My thoughts are cold as the wind outside
And the chords strengthen a sense of despair
This is the time when I'm a cynic at best
Written thoughts on paper
Notes by an unstable muser

It doesn't matter
The glasses that should clarify are broken
And pages that I so desperately read
Are torn apart by contradiction