The blurred pictures within my head
are growing roots, twisted among the truth.
So heavy my mind has become,
I know not distinguish between what has been there and what not.
My imagination keeps growing
with pictures of falsehood and lies,
and sometimes there are pictures
of desired dreams which never were mine.

I have heared them say
“She has gone mad, like all of them”,
questioning if madness is evil
or if we all are some kind of mad within our secret walls.
Is the fault mine that pictures have become
indistinguishable and sad,
or am I mad for talking about my mind becoming too heavy for my neck.

I would tell you that I tried
but until today I did not.
My mind was too weak to ever fight a war
against those blurry thoughts.
You see, I tried to hold on to you, you seemed so strong
within my head,
but eventually you broke down, leaving nothing behind
but dust upon my blurry mind.

Jehona Thaqi © are poets mad, or am I a poet