This is the theory which is my life,
a faltering feverish fatality that I call life,
a blubbering beast of boredom that I live in,
the screaming scared sphere of earth.
I sit on nails all day
dealing with people who speak with knives;
their sharp tongues launching at me
the mean words that attack my soul.
I sleep on a cement mattress,
stones poke my thoughts at night
until I fall asleep and escape into my dreams
where happily I can life my true life.
In my body there are tremors, small nerve quakes
that untabilize my neurons and nerve endings,
they push their way up to the surface
and make me become a ball of tangled tantrums.
I speak to invisible people who invisibly live with me;
a husband that sleeps with me at night,
a child that grows inside of me,
a house I shall never see but live in.
Food tastes like soil but in my mind it is delicious.
I breath in air but exhale vanilla fragrances.
I speak normally but in my conscience I sing
and I am always being watched by an invisible audience.
This is the theory that my life has become,
a theory because no one else has proven it true,
because experiments and trials will not give it solution
to this: The Theory of a Madwoman.