My head is on the nightstand; my arm is on the couch,
My fingers are swinging from the ceiling fan while my palms,
Well, they are trying to grab an orange from the fruit basket.
My eyesight has left me but my perception is so warped,
I am uncertain on what I can and can not see.
I am a torso in the bed with a needle and a thread,
And I wonder why I'm not dead when I do not have my head.
My legs are bulletin boards with push pins holding people's opinions,
On my state of mind, my values, and worst of all my health.
Bloodstained papers tattoo my skin with remarks like,
“What drugs are you on?” and “You're faking it! Cut it out!”
I reply I do not need drugs with a mind that is high all the time,
On it's own and I rewire it but it all goes wrong everyday.
I'm constantly not in control of my head or my body,
Or reflexes that shiver my limbs to the floor if I can't catch them.
And there's a mile long list of problems I need help with but,
Insurance companies that want their cut of my food,
And doctors that do not care anymore, and psychiatrists,
Dishing out drugs that make you sicker, more defensive, homicidal,
Depressed, dizzy, fugue, fuzzy, confused, lopsided, thin and heavy,
How does this work? It doesn't. It doesn't even scratch the surface,
Of problems inside of minds like mine I know can be helped,
Because if there's one thing I refuse to say it's that I am untreatable.
YOU ARE READING
Shattered Amour Propre
PoetryThis is a collection of some of the poems from my book, Shattered Amour Propre. There are a variety of formats made out of raw emotion. Come get stabbed in the heart, collect pollen from the flowers for a smile, and cry about the tragedies that have...
