Some people say I’m off my trolley,
That gears have slipped and gone awry,
They whisper soft with tilted heads,
While watching madness cloud my sky.
They say I laugh at hollow things,
At clocks that melt and shadows crawl,
They say I walk where reason ends,
And speak with ghosts that line the hall.
They think my thoughts are rust and smoke,
Just cogs that turn with no control,
But I have maps they’ll never read,
Etched deep inside my fractured soul.
The rails I ride are steep and strange,
Through tunnels made of blood and bone,
The sun here sets in shades of black,
And midnight sings in undertone.
A broken bell rings in my head—
It tolls for those who’ve come too near,
And every chime recalls a name
I stitched from silence, loss, and fear.
Some people say I’m off my trolley,
But they don’t see the track I tread.
To them I’m mad, a joke, a tale—
To me, the world is worse instead.
So let them point and pity me,
Let sane men scoff and turn away,
I ride the edge where angels fall,
And know the price they’ve yet to pay.
Therapy Bits 
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