Portrait of a Madman

I guess this place will always be
like a prison for my dreams,
for all the birds that once flattered their wings up there and beyond
where my eyes no longer see.

Some ugly jailers watch and listen,
never sleeping, never eating,
lurking and crawling in the shade,
ever wondering what could be that hides beneath my face, and a soul that
might not show
any kind of love or respect
for a world misunderstood,
which has been cast away.

But understand, my dearest friend;
this ain't no place for me to dwell
and, who am I to blame, when there's no one else
around, for every single nightmare
is alive within this cell.
Turning every trace of hope, into unrest and crazy thoughts.

It makes me kind of scared
to think about insanity, and the times that lie ahead;
to be unable to control, this old brain of mine

and, who knows,

I might even forget
everything and everyone
behind thick curtains of chaos,
black holes and bright lights,
and a taste of bitter wine.

Anyway, I'd still be around, I'd still be there,
somehow, sometimes,
longing forever,
and trying to recall your name.