Insanity I've seen nothing but my body covered in swirly blue ink and pink scars. I done nothing but lay in a room drowning in red roses and white daisies, struggling to swim against the confusing waves of my thoughts which are crushing the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless and shaking on the floor. Scalding water washes the salt from my face as I hug my naked body and try to blink away the whirlwind of ideas, theories, and philosophies on this fucked up excuse for a world and I want to scratch and kick and claw the relentless hands of the people telling me who I can, can't, and should be. I want to scream in the faces of those responsible for the lights, the cameras, and the action and the beautiful women with hourglass bodies that I've starved myself for. Time is flying past me and it's like I can just reach out and grab those precious years of blissful delusion I've let slip so carelessly through my fingers. And I'm beginning to think the light at the end of the tunnel doesn't exist, that I won't ever be able to smile again and mean it. I'm just floating in an oblivion of ignorance with other extinguished flames destined for an empty grave and I'm waiting, hoping against everything I've made myself believe, for someone to grab my hand and bring me back to earth to perform the most amazing and impossible of miracles: accepting me in all my insanity.