don't have a title for weirdness

You look around
And you think you can't fall further
Because inside somewhere
you know you've hit rock bottom.
and you inhale the poison
Feel it coalescing with your blood
Sweet misery
swirling, dark and musky
Under your skin.
You look at the sky
And you think Please Lord don't
let it fall on my head tonight.
Not Tonight.

I wrote this a million years ago.Stumbled upon it today.Everybody who writes, I think, when they read something they wrote some time ago feel that their words are unbearably juvenile, the emotion ridiculously heightened, the pain exacerbated. Hell, I know I do. I mean what, WHAT in the world drove me to the point that I thought the line was crossed. Which line, I dunno. But yeah, it was crossed.

Still, I see people more poisoned that me. People hinging on the precinct of hopeless insanity for a time period longer than me, longer than I would've ever thought possible. For years, even decades. But then one wonders how such thin lines of distinction are formed, how one is more or less insane that another. What are the degrees of being poisoned, one way or the other?
It's terrible. Ought there to be people so poisoned by society and by the faceless classless joyless masses, that they go mad with rage or despair or hatred? Imagine the monstrosity of such a force, a force that pushes a rational human mind to the peripheries of worlds defined by words like insanity, delirium, acute desolation.

I, sitting in a warm bed with air conditioning and a cozy blanket, a pen in one hand and a piece of chocolate in the other, I have the comfortable audacity of considering insanity as some sort of distilled form of existence.
And I rap myself on the head and think I'm being elitist, infinitely stupid and a pathetic escapist . Of course being deranged isn't a solution, of course it is a terrible form of existence.

Oh but is it really?