Insane

 What is sanity?

How do you know if it’s there?

Can you teach it?

Can you have it?

Is it realities we share?

Does it move?

Does it get bored?

Does sanity stay in one place?

Can you touch its colors?

Can you smell its moods?

Can you taste its dry face?

Can you lose it, if you don’t take care?

Or perhaps, is it just always there?

Or, how can we know what this word truly means?

When it’s mostly an agreement of things that are seen?

Is it us who get lost?

Between the haves, and have nots?

Is it the privileged who get to retain their own thoughts?

Because what is real, since our senses are so small?

We live in cupboards, cradled, covered, censured.

Pinched inside the cracks of insanity violence flourishes unseen.

Unheard screams laugh when the poisons infect.

The good is undone when the facts become fiction.

Heroes become villains when their masks disappear.

It’s the insane who see clearly.

Unfettered by cowards rules.

They’re awake from the slumber of consciousness.

They reach out.

They grasp.

They cry.

They die.