I feel the light crawling
on my skin, burrowing in
and out through the pores,
illuminating my blue bones.
I see the glow of your pain
woven in the strands of my muscles,
stretched and aching like a long line
of scarlet soldiers dragging guns and stabbing bayonets.
I hear the purple shimmer of your displeasure,
Flashing gold anger explodes up my body
in shrieking tsunami waves.
I taste darkness and agony.
I smell the rainbow of your discontent.
I am you and we are
sensational.
A cut black silhouette
oozing around corners
hovering at windows.
I feel your gaze drilling
between my shoulder blades.
You vanish when I turn
but I glimpse your intent.
Your presence smothers
sparks of happiness.
Wariness wears tears
in the fabric of my composure,
devouring me in shadows.
.
.
Written during the Reach Out Psychosis assembly at my school.
You didn’t understand
they were talking about you
when they spoke of
mental illness
drugs
psychosis
treatment
hope.
But the lies you live
cover your ears
and deafen you.
You are so
accustomed to ignoring
truth and danger,
you do not see it
before your eyes.
The presenters sing
and tell their stories.
Your fingers are in your ears,
“La la la la la
I can’t hear you”
as you stomp with
vacuous determination
toward
the pit.
You don’t believe in God
but you know demons,
up close and personally.
The ever present haunting,
sometimes out of sight
but never far,
is a billowing storm cloud,
black and ominous,
waiting to pour down upon you
waiting to wash out your roads
waiting to carry you away
too rife with hopelessness
to thrash against it.
A demon rides your shoulder,
its claws clinging to your skin,
its fury held at bay by
an umbrella of medicaments,
a pharmaceutical shelter
from the storm,
inadequate against a
demon’s tempest.
What you wanted to be
Everything you wanted to see
Was it you who lied?
Or was it me?
What dreams did you hide
in the tears you cried?
Was it you who lied?
Or was it me?
When your mother sighed
When your father denied
When you tried to foresee
Was it you who lied?
or was it me?
Were we lacking in pride?
Why could you not confide?
We simply could not see
so was it you who lied?
or was it me?
She hoards memories
In books and art.
She hoards accomplishment
In clothes and fabric
She holds tightly
Against insecurity
Things are a bulwark
Against uncertainty.
She creates a
measure of control
against anger, anxiety
and angst.
When she is safe,
Secure and satisfied
The barriers may
Be burnt, but for now
She clings to what was.
You
were the stranger in the house
the sullen face across the table.
You
were the accuser in the house
certain of your imaginary world.
You
were the lost in the house
confused by our reality.
You
were in the house,
but we did not reach
You.
So many sad poets
with melancholy eyes
savaging at their sanity
Life is brevity,
chemistry,
my sensitivity.
incredibly
lacks pleasantries.
When brains strain
against levity
it is time to
press the anti-depressants.
Broken leg,
ruptured spleen,
brain in pain,
medicine for all.
Equal opportunity
of healing for spleen,
leg or brain.
Poets, find joy
in the rain.
The bravest thing you ever did
was open the door of your dark room
and invite in the light.
The bravest thing you ever did
was to believe someone could
hold you in the night.
The bravest thing you ever did
was embrace the possibility
that something might
The bravest thing you ever did
was to look through your window
and claim the sight
The bravest thing you ever did
was to climb through the window
into the light.
Out, out brief candle
The spark of light
Is too difficult to handle
Beyond the might
Of simple mortals.
So much better to embark
through gleaming portals
into eternal dark.
Shawn L. Bird 