I'll not shove myself into sanity's
box,
hexagonal peg into cubic meat
grinder.
I'll not dig out the inner eye that sees
the soul,
to make myself
the blinder.

I'll not deafen myself to my own
heart's song,
or to the wail of need beneath
the skin,
deny that I am as
I am,
or see it as
as sin.

My madness is the sanest part
of me.
It is the laugh, the bellow, and
the shout.
It is the fist rammed through
the wall.
It is the tunnel that leads
me out.

I can feel as madness
slips away,
and heavy sanity decends
like rain.
It bores its way through
my skull,
and pushes holes into
my brain.

Beginning at the
outer wall
I hear as sentries drop dead
1 X 1.
It's floating like a warring
fog,
as some dread gas dissolves
the lungs.

It pushes to the inmost part
of me,
and clouds my eyes and stops
my ears,
strangles my joys, buries beauty in
the mud,
feeds and strengthens all
my fears.

I have no will, I can't
resist
as sanity fills me with
such gloom.
I'm like a child lost in
the dark,
covered over in deepest
tomb.

But then the storm of madness comes
roaring in,
and sweeps the sane-ness from
the air.
I ram my fist through
coffin's lid,
and free myself from sane-ness'
lair.

The world again it fills
with light.
I smell the earth, its joys
and ills.
I feel all things that touch
my soul;
those that give peace and those
that thrill.

I will not carve myself to fit
the mold,
nor slice off nose to fit
the mask.
Madness is the truly sane man's
home.
He goes truly mad for want
ot it.

Thanks to Bukowski.