Poems in the Light of Day
The lyrical poems of FW Malone
Mental.
That’s the word.
Not insane.
Insane belongs to those
who shatter windows, who scream
at walls that cannot answer back.
Mental belongs to me.
I’m not losing my mind—
that’s not what’s happening.
My mind has rooms I’ve never seen,
corridors stretching past reason,
doors that open into doors
that open into something else entirely.
I haven’t fallen.
I’ve wandered.
Lost within it—that’s the truth.
Not lost like someone fell,
but lost like someone walked too far
into a forest made of their own thoughts
and never found the clearing.
The mind is a cathedral
with no ceiling,
and I am somewhere in the rafters,
watching myself watch myself
climb higher.
Not insane.
Cerebral.
There’s a difference.
The difference is that madness
tears itself apart,
while I’m simply—
somewhere else.
Inside it.
Inside walls I’ve built
from every word I’ve ever read,
every sentence I’ve rehearsed
at three in the morning
when sleep won’t come
and the walls hold my gaze.
I’m not unwell.
I’m just—
deeper in
than anyone should go
and still find their way back
to the light of day
where poems live.
Mental.
Yes.
But not broken.
Just—
buried.