Those Many Voices
The exit you have yet to find
Why drop your hints? Why take the time?
We’re too young or too old or we’re too far away
We can’t help and will not try—not for you, not today
But just like yesterday we say perhaps tomorrow
Then, again drop us those lines we have no doubt you borrowed
The illness – this “condition” I call it fake
And those scars…somehow you drew them upon your veins
Any doctor will be from your own pocket to pay
I will not encourage it; that is money I’ll not waste
You‘ve been through nothing
Just accept what you are told to be
Need only what I say you need
Just say that you are happy
They say you should go somewhere and hide
Trouble you make here, no one’s on your side
May as well go split your skin – bitch about and cry
What a treat – what sweet relief if you went on and died
Ask yourself ‘If its real then where’s the suicide?’
Think back—how many times have you even truly tried?…
The poem is one I wanted to get off my mind and post already before I lost the nerve. I know how it sounds and I cringe, but hey- I’m not perfect, and I punish myself for it everyday. The photo above it is a kind of cactus I did a little digital editing to.
Went to the doctor yesterday, got referred to a psychiatrist, have new medication, and it’s official: I am underweight. Someone telling me this doesn’t make much of a difference though, it seems. I still did my biking this morning and still, 12 hours later now have yet to eat a thing.
Psych. appointment Friday afternoon.