Posts Tagged ‘mental illness’

I’m somewhat mercurial,
A revenant of flesh,
I drift about as if on a breeze,
Missed calls and messages on read,
I’m a periphery person,
Never in true focus,
Ever on the outside,
I’ll be a stranger to a friend one moment,
And a friend to a stranger the next,

My whims deviate on a dime,
I’m not duplicitous,
Not double-dealing,
No ill will do I intend,
My mood and soul are just pulled all over,
Dragged as if by shifting tides,
To each cardinal direction,
Wishing for solitude in one breath,
And longing for companionship the next.

At times my mind becomes a cranial soup,
A colourless slop of muddled ideas,
Far from palatable,
And even further from the acumen I strive for,
An anarchic hodge-podge,

I’ve lost my centre,
I’m disoriented,
I’m perplexed,
Grossed out by the muck my brain offers up,
I hear it sloshing about between my ears,

When confusion takes over,
I try to separate fiction from logic,
Taking sips begrudgingly,
Hoping to digest an ounce of sense,
But the odds are undeniably stacked.

Awakening halfway through the days life,
Wearied and jaded,
I rise only to fall again,
Starting the long journey to the floor,
I surrender myself to the stupor,
Limbs forced prone by fatigue,
Staring at the ceiling,
That grey vignette of tedium,
Reading stories in the cobwebs above,
The gravity grows in intensity,
I’m a prisoner of this rug,
Outside doesn’t exist,
There is no outside,
Only this cell of my own hearth.

A rather foul pall has fallen,
On my mind and mood,
A fog over every facet of my life,
Something just feels wrong,
Like everything out of focus,
An insidious change of perception,
With no explanation,

The skies seem ever more grey,
Even as they glow blue,
Ambrosia and champagne in my mouth,
Tastes as bland as dust,
Social plans are as hounds,
Pursuing me as frightened prey,
The best things in life going somehow incorrect,

In the lukewarm winds of time,
I hope this pall shall blow away,
For it’s no way to exist,
To feel innately wrong.

In this cerebral prison cell,
I often languish in rueful silence,
Sentenced to the darkness,
For the crime of chronic heartbeats,
And I’m not alone,
There is another thing in here,
And at times I’m afraid of this cellmate,
This accomplice of grey matter,

It shares this concrete box,
For the crimes it puts to paper,
Carving trials and tribulations,
Armageddons and colossi,
With its ink-stained shank,
Manuscripts hidden in the mattress,
Wielding my hands as its own,
Equal parts artist and offensive weapon.

Stashed in this dark cubicle,
Like a vintage speaker inoperable,
I languish in pained silence,
No more does poetry and music escape these lips,
No longer do I monologue,

I am alone,
No incoming voices,
No mechanics come to fix me,
Just perpetual let down after sore event,
Spurring me to depressive inaction,

With each crank of the dial,
I am less myself,
Turned down in volume,
A muted soul,
No longer to produce a syllable nor tune,

The loneliest sound is a single teardrop.

As they say,
The face is a masquerade mask,
And the eyes are windows to the soul,
But windows can be boarded up and blockaded,
And a masks purpose is to deceive,

You never know the intentions within,
The bad aura that permeates its design,
The gentlest smile can hold the most umbrage,
A held stare can be pure amorous obfuscation,
Cordial words can hide poison within,

The back of your skull often suspects something,
A defence mechanism for your peace of mind,
That sixth sense hints at hidden danger,
You’ll wish you had heeded the warnings,
That imperceptible lightning of negativity in the air,

The bad vibes,
Rancor hovering about an angel.

Is there only one way to spend a night?
While the throng bathe in their alehouses,
Falling down their own rabbit holes,
Drinking up the booze and bodies,
As for this clown,
At times it is better to stay home,
So I do,

A serenity is filling this hovel,
I greet the quiet like a lost sibling,
Embracing my duvet and cushion friends,
The fireplace licks calmly at my toes,
I’m simply existing in my own space,
Catching up on that picture or that tome,
It’s a personal health visit,

You can keep your fireworks,
You can have all of those jazzy shots,
You can have all of the rowdy fun,
I’m having a night in,
Just this once.

Her words were as an errant furnace,
Viciously melting me down,
Magma in her breath,
A suns core of spite and rage,
Each word burns hotter than the last,
Broiling blow after blow,
Tangent after criticism,
Tangerine flowers and brass fall from me,
Depositing hearts and memories in scoria on the floor,

I am now only a pile of ash,
Bestrewn across this wasteland of a life,
Tired and stale,
But this won’t be the end,
Not this time,
That same fire that destroyed me shall remake me,
I’ll be a phoenix this time,
Erupting like a volcano to new heights,
And I’ll lay waste to your animus this time.

It was unclear what invoked this detonation,
The world has many stray matches,
A look,
A word,
A revelation,
But erupt it did nonetheless,

All I can glimpse is burning confetti,
Metal shards of a man,
Sharp as a tongue of a soul in pain,
The heat feels like tar on the skin,
As if I can touch the heartache in its mucus,
Munitions from a heart and mind imploded,

But observe,
Those piles of singed petals and broken glass,
That is what it looks like,
When a life becomes shrapnel,
Reduced to a sorry wreckage,
No phoenix here.