The Burning of his Soul

he is a manic
barely suppressed
creative genius

and a depressed
non-conformist

a total artist

on fire with ideas
and drowning in
inky black sludge

his soul stuck
in both places

two sides that
repell each other
like the positive
and negative poles
of a magnet

from that struggle
comes the art

you might think
that being bi-polar
is the most natural
thing on earth

since the earth
itself is bi-polar

no they said
you are broken
so take these pills
to fix you

and you will be
no longer burning
no longer trapped
like a sloth
in a tar pit

you will be free

and so the burning
of his soul
ended

out it crawled
from the sludge

and there it sat
not moving
feeling nothing
creating nothing

no more pain
no more joy

and no more art

DEFINITIONS

We’ve codified, solidified,
Analyzed, patholigized,
In attempts to come to grips
With behaviours and symptoms,
Still for all our diagnoses,
Of neuroses and psychoses,
Medicines that science poses,
Maybe we were better off with demons.

In my heart. In my head.

I wish that I could say,
Without scaring you away,
What is really in my heart,
But I don’t know where to start.

Sharing with you my despair,
Is not easy and not fair.
For it belongs to only me.
It’s not meant for you to see.

Nor meant for you to pity.

Still…

I wish that I could say,
Without scaring you away,
What is really in my head,
But I’ll be quiet instead.

Manners Please!

Naysayers and complainers,
Have thought so all along,
An in-your-face air of disgrace,
Their smug self-righteous song,
They think rudeness makes them right,
But they’re very very wrong,
To think that being disagreeable,
Is akin to being strong.

The Cat’s Schedule

She looks at me
impatiently.
As if to say,
Anytime Today!
The bed is
unavailable,
which is barely
tolerable.
I know that laundry
must be arranged.
That clean sheets
for dirty
must be exchanged.
Yet, she looks at me
impatiently.
As if to say
Hurry Up, Will You!
I’ve got some
important
sleeping to do.

Waiting for my SIM

A new phone I’ve got,
Which cost quite a lot,
For no doubt it was not,
Bought on sale.
The chances are slim.
The prospects are grim,
For my SIM being in,
Today’s mail.
Should I call to say,
Is my SIM on its way?
Can you send it today,
Without fail?
They’ll hear my plea,
Maybe feel sympathy,
But alas, it will be,
No avail.
And I’m feeling glum,
For again nothing’s come,
And my SIM travels on,
Speed of snail.

Necromancer Needed!

New beginning,
Or farewell tour?
Truth is, we’re not really sure.
Seems neither of us can decide,
If we’re here for good,
Or for the ride,
And since we have no necromancer,
It’s a question only we can answer.

Cynics & Sceptics

The cynic blinks
Says this world stinks
Thinks we’re better off without it,
The sceptic simply winks and says
“I doubt it”.

Negative Memories

Stuffed in envelopes
and shoved in boxes.
Buried in a cemetery
of negative memories.
Imprints exhumed
of forgotten flashes
and long lost positives.
From the negatives
emerge resurrected images.
Like headstone rubbings
reminders of something
that once lived
but is now dead.

Still the Same

In one week now,
Or slightly less,
I will be thirty-seven.
Although I feel,
The same as when,
I was only eleven.
I’m still that child,
Withdrawn and shy,
And awkward and unsure.
Still wondering,
Am I good enough?
I’m just as insecure.
I thought by now,
I’d be more cool.
More bold, more confident.
But alas, I’m not.
I’m still the same.
But I’m okay with it.