Reality inside my Insanity

it gets tricky you see when trying to question reality
too dense was that book of methods for me, too lazy am I to dissect the theories
I'd rather get messy and work through the thick goo, the slop of paint and pain
red blood splatters as I fingerpaint miniature soldiers along a grey green background
tiny dots of yellow glitter across the sheet of glass, painting with pastels and oils
the lives of the people around me and painting their futures and painting their fates
inside this little glass box, i paint the walls with theories of reality of insanity of me
It gets tricky
when people take on the roles of painters with their white t-shirts covered in ink
they get so abstract, painting their walls with roles and words- with diagrams and electronic figures, some like to use glow in the dark stars and paste it onto the ceiling
but no one is very interested in looking through those glass walls that no one can notice anymore because the colors are just too fun, too pretty, too easy to erase and though there's air outside, no one needs to breathe here on earth, some of us question it- we paint diagrams and equations, we paint metaphors for what exists outside, some of us see through the walls, and we paint what we see...and it looks almost the same...but those  those of us who break through....realize we are nothing but paint and wonder upon the hand that moves the brush, wonder upon the direction of energy in this metaphysical universe, wonder if the voices that scream in our ears are really reverberating off the walls, and within the craters of the moon, moon:: delusion and chaos, but what does it mean to be crazy?
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