Passing Storms and Lingering Tempests

i speak to them
but i'm not really there
so they never hear
i leave them small messages
which only i can see
because i exist on another plane
and the crossing over is very hard
i can change these lines
a thousand times in a day
and no one will notice
transparent words on
translucent pages
they are only real here, with me
i, however, can't seem to shut out
the constant babble of voices
coming through the walls and
up from the heater ducts
chanting their endless litany
as i brace my mind against them
lying on my bed of eiderdown
counting winged reptiles
that drift in and out of
my eyeless sockets
prompting me to wonder
at which point
does insanity claim you
or more importantly
at which point
do you embrace the madness?