With mighty pen, he has a sword
With all the world alone to save
Line by line and word by word
All of him alas he gave

Of course he's mad as only words
are the part of him that ever rhymed
Forced to write down every word-
Reminded of a time

that only tore his world apart
Torn just like he's always been
Far before his poem would start, 
His poem would have an end

So stricken of his perfect script,
but still he has his perfect prose
He finds within reclusiveness
The happiness he knows

He'd always write within the dark
To write and write and never read
With blistered fingers as his heart
He wrote with pain that let him bleed

With blood upon him, torn apart
Through everything, he'd never cede
For he always wrote within his heart
What's in his heart indeed

has spilled upon the paper seen
as canvas for a weary dream
That woke him from a heaven's scene
Through hell, his writing's still serene:

With ill-intent, I've gone and went
OuT mY MiNd and back again
I'm heaven-sent without a hint
Of what I have to give within

Locked inside- these words in I
My dreams- they let me in
The only thing I have are dreams
The only key that's ever been

And so I've dreamed without a thing
To wake me once again
And so I've dreamed without a thing 
To wake me once again

So much to say in silence way
With no other way to show it
To die and die and still survive
Is the life of the mad poet...