Fire in the Wind

I wrote this the last time I was on prednisone.  This is the best I can do to explain how it feels to be me at the moment.

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You think I am sitting still,

but really I am moving so fast you can’t see me move.

I’m everywhere at once

yet no where.

Staring at a blank page is like staring at a mirror;

Eventually, the page fills with gibberish that I can’t understand.

I spend most my time trying to decipher the mess I wrote,

So I can prove my rational mind still exist,

despite the goldfish memory

and the retarded questions.

If you meet me today, you won’t know me tomorrow.

If you knew me yesterday, I hope you notice the difference

because it is not me standing here,

And it is not me speaking;

She is the monster child of modern medicine

twitching and shaking her way through my life.

I must apologize for her constantly

as though she were an embarrassing young child

or untrained dog.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t seem to have any control over her.”

They smile

and nod

and give me pity eyes,

but still demand the same

and mistake her for me every time.

So everything races forward with intolerable slowness;

Moving faster and faster but not going anywhere;

The feeling you’re falling over and over

then you wake and fall out of bed with a jump.

That’s it: the gasp and pounding heart.

And will I land in a month?

In a year?

I can’t come down too fast or I’ll bounce back up like a ball.

I must land soft like a feather, but can I wait that long?

And who is living my life in the mean time?

10/2003

The rain locks me in.

It is my metal bars and my comfort.

Does it protect me from myself

  or hold me in spitefully?

Either way, it talks gently to me while I'm here.

And I would miss it if it left.

In a room of sleeping bodies,

  the rain is my only friend.

No tears;

too many fears.

More strangers

increase those dangers.

My lack of smile

stirs uneasy rile.

I cannot fient

by blue tear paint,

and red on my wrist

make suspicions persist.

Just let me grieve.

He who would believe

in my strength and heart,

I will be apart,

not for a day or year;

even in heaven, I fear.

circa 2007 

I know.  It's a miricle!!  I wrote a poem, not a song lyric.  It's short, but inspired by Vincent Van Gogh.  I hope to develope more later.

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swirling circles

eating paint

my flesh as a gift

    not of pleasure

I'm no prophetess

there is no quiet here

as I return

I return

circa 6/18/2007  for Van Gogh and my self

Flowers burst their gentle bulbs
to search for light and moister air;
a rush of purpose I, too, share
On days when careful thunder rolls,
Nature, with grass between her toes,
pats my head with condescending breezes;
she is unaware of my past treasons.
When winter thaws and melts to shame,
reminders of the spring time beat the same
as a nervousness for ticking watches
and now a figure who forever matches
the ideal season of a man.

circa 2001