Such profound madness,
she lived in the midst of books.
Pages and pages of stories,
stack upon stacks of lives.
Her own unbearable, she delved
into the depths of others.

Her room filled with stick figures,
their pins protruding out.
Her heart filled with malice,
its magic spilling out.
Nothing to want, she believed
in the destruction of others.

She lived in her own mind,
chaos spitting fires.
With such calm dexterity,
her life she spent.
Smiling at all, she retreated
inwards to battles unknown.

They say: To everyone their own
skeletons infinite, worries unbound.
There is madness in every soul,
broken shards of every heart,
insurmountable pain in every brain.
There is madness everywhere.