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This is my experience with meeting The Madman. Originally, it was to be a sketch of a gnarled old man, but he didn't want that. He told me, 'Write!'. So I did. And this is what came of it. 5 1/2 pages.

"I have seen the writing on the wall.
It speaks to me...
Screams to me...
Asking funny questions.
Who killed you?
Why did it kill you?
Where's your mommy;
Why can't I see?
Twelve is the equation. Why?
Eleven minus forty-eight. Go.
Numbers pile up
Thousands upon thousands of bodies
all screaming
all clawing in perfect silence
picturesque eternity
four
five
ninety-nine
Ramblings of a madman
What do they mean?
are there secret worlds in his eyes?
Who has sight enough to look into them?
Can't you cry anymore?
Keep going
Nine
Nein
Hidden wars where no one's looking
Cry for me
Sleep with me
Die Cry lie Why?
Never in that order
Can't you hear them?
feel without skin?
Who can?
The heart beats faster
and explodes
petals fly away
Pollen drifting
intensity... cries away...
life drains out...
...The pen slows...
...Papers filled...
...tears in our eyes...
...Voices raised in unison...
...lamentation...
...No patience for dots...
...but so sleepy...
whose mind is this now?
Who is screaming
and sleeping
and stalking us now?
Is this the madman?
Is this sleeping?
He's waiting.
He lets me know he's there
Now you know...
Creativity isn't pretty
Hee hee hee...
You finally get it...
There is no gentle breeze
No pretty tickle from a beautiful muse...
I can see him, now before me
He is inspiration
He is what makes me draw
notice not helps, makes
No, focus on me...
Who am I?
He is The Madman.
Very good.
Other artists can have the pretty muse.
I have The Madman.
Hee hee hee...
He will help me
He is the writing on the wall
The pain if I don't get the ideas down
The physical hurt
the emotional hurt
He is always watching
He tells me now
a voice of insanity
Art doesn't make sense.
But it's true.
I'm so tired now...
...But He...
Tell them...
He wants me to try and explain it.
But I can't.
There is no way...
It has taken me 17 years to meet The Madman.
I've always been here...
I know. But I've never met you.
I'll show up more often then.
Thank you, Madman.
There, you see?
He's relaxing now.
Smiling and watching with giant, crazy eyes
And untrimmed fingernails.
He is The Madman.
So
everyone else keep the muse
The pretty greek maiden
I am lucky enough to get The Madman.
...Let me sleep now, Madman...
For a little while.
I'll be back.
I look forward to it, Madman.
Ha ha,
my little artist.
I like you.
Always have.
You'll be good.
Scottish?
Only sometimes.
And that large, snarled grin.
See you soon!
Mah little artist...
My Artist.
My Madman.


(The following was also written during class, immediately after the completion of my poem/rant)

This is not the first time I've met The Madman. I met him yesterday, when he hit me seven different times, until I got one image fully drawn, with all seven sketched out.
This is the first time I've ever spoken to him. I was sitting in English. We were examining the themes in Pink Floyd's "Another Brick In The Wall." I was looking at the lyrics for it, and The Madman attacked me when I read "I have seen the writing on the wall." I have filled six pages with writing, for the last half an hour.
I don't know who The Madman really is. I can feel him in my mind. He can speak to me, and I to him.
I don't know if he's an alternate personality. I don't know WHAT he is. And I don't know how I can explain this withought sounding crazy. The best way I have is that he is responsible for my creativity. He gives me my ideas. I know they are mine, but he is responsible. I don't know how.
The best way I can describe it is the phrase I already wrote.