Posts Tagged ‘mental health’

To this clownish drudge,
Writing is everything,
A hobby,
A passion,
But most of all,
An obsession,
A mania within these bones,

It’s not optional,
Not anymore,
If the words don’t come out,
If the thoughts aren’t vented,
They begin to chew me away,
Like maggots in a bloated corpse,
Like exsanguinating leeches,

This implacable need to create,
It’s the greatest gift,
But the most harsh of curses,
But the finest art is one with suffering,
A wordsmith must craft,
A writer must write,
I must write,

I must.

The attic of my brain is infested,
A legion of cerebral rats I fear,
Vile little vermin,
Perhaps my mind was ample carrion,
They gnawed on my memories,
My good times,
The smiles and beaches,
Seizing chunks in gory fashion,

With each nibble,
Images began to distort,
A stony tint overlaid the joy,
Stories took dramatic new turns,
I had to act,
I had to chase them out,
Club in hand,
A flood of rodents into the aether,

To avenge the elation already consumed,
To salvage what little remained,
To remember some joy.

Some are pursued by spirits,
Corpses of a hundred yesterdays,
Ectoplasmic bindings,
Every past hurt or teardrop,
Every bugbear and tribulation,
Lessons that stuck around too long,
This reminiscence does you no good,

So the best recourse,
Is to bury it,
Slay it and put it in the ground,
Stuff it in a pine box,
Exorcise that spectre,
Forget it,
Let that shovel be your survivor,

If you don’t bury the past,
Six feet deep in salted earth,
You’ll always be haunted by ghosts.

Do you ever see your soul in another?
Like a beacon amidst the masses,
Dancing for your eyes only,
They’re not you but somehow familiar,
Physically diverse perhaps,
But a spiritual doppelganger,

It could be a stranger,
Or an old confidant,
But within their form,
A flaxen glow emanates,
Your soul reflected,
As if a mirror stood before you,

That spirit in the one before you,
Maybe they were always there,
Perhaps the mirror was too foggy,
Blemished by your traumas,
Perhaps you weren’t ready,
To meet a true friend.

Life is precious,
Like a ruby set in a ribcage,
A canary in a mineshaft,
It is the most beautiful of things,
Revealed in all elements of the world,
Waterfalls and leaves and sunlight,
The blush upon a cheek,
The uneasy clamour of a foal,

It is also fragile,
Like ceramic lungs,
Easily damaged or snuffed outright,
Entropy always bearing down,
Ribs can crack,
Light always fades,
Water always evaporates,
The canary always suffocates.

My mind was once such a sketchpad,
Paltry yet functional,
Full of images from the past,
Smiles and carousels,
Downpours and cataclysms,
Penned by revels and crises long gone,
I remembered them all,
The ink I thought was dry,

But pens sometimes leak,
The ink seeps out,
Or runs off the page,
So many faces and names,
Escaped into the aether,
Like so many convicts,
It’s nothing personal,
But my memory is only sketches,

Too finely etched,
And easily besmirched.

Life is rife with peril,
It’s a journey across lands unknown,
A yellow brick road,
Laden with trash and pennies,
No matter how far you walk,
There’ll always come a bridge,
Built upon miracles and curses,
Under which all manner of troll could hide,

It’s perilous yet unavoidable,
A turning point in some eyes,
You must cross the bridge,
Life demands it,
So keep living and walking,
Follow the road,
And cross another bridge,
And another.

I remember once,
There was a man,
Proudly surfing the waves of stardom,
But it all changed,
When he found himself struck by grapeshot,
Battered by pearlescent deceit,
Discrediting gunpowder and iron,

Now he is a wreck at sea,
Forgotten,
Discarded,
Down in the breathless dark,
Laid beside lofty ideas and fallen anchors,
Coddled by sand and whalebones,
Now only an admiral of split timber,

Despite his lavish accolades,
He was the victim of mutiny,
Not at cutlass point,
But tongues coated in spite,
He became a lesson to others,
A cautionary tale,
Not to put your head above the gunwale.

Hello young lady,
You want to be an actress?
Walk the red carpet?
I’ll get you there,
You look like a star you know,
The next Monroe,

You’re just perfect lass,
Just a touch of dye here,
And nip and tuck,
Not to mention the push-up bra,
I’m not changing you,
Just opening some doors,

Auditions shall fall like rain my dear,
Just trust me,
I’m trying to help you,
Here’s a drink,
All the greats drink this and smoke that,
Hollywood always provides,

Come sit here my dear,
Don’t mind my hand,
I’m your friend right?
Oh my girl,
Tomorrow you’ll be a star,
But for now come kneel here.

Oh my the cracks,
The veins on a damaged soul,
The carnage within me,
Like tarmac ripping asunder,
Wounds in the earth,
Rent apart by every abusive tongue,

In a frenzy I try to fix them,
I fill them with plaster,
Placating words and self-assurance,
Yet still they seep through,
With all their dust,
And their bile,

They grow each day,
Cracks becoming chasms,
Exposing bone and glass shards,
Dark days growing into cyclones,
Sundering me ever further,
Until someday I fall apart altogether.