A couple of years ago...

July 1999

My wrists are neat and trim.
I dont reconise the hands.
They are attached skin and tendon,
they must be mine.

Why dont I see them as mine?
Perhaps the white pills,
disguise my own skin.
Would I let them do that?

My head hurts,
my sub-conscious rules.
The pills in my hand,
might just give me the relief.

So, again, I look down,
they are still there amongst the pink.
Slowly they disintegrate.
I must not give in.

I sleep, closing my eyes at last.
But, I do wake up,
I must have been dreaming.
My physical and spiritual so apart.

I want my body back, my spirit to return,
life to come home.
I am so tired.
This is too hard.

Presenile

Screaming.
Hackles raised, it enters my brain,
penetrating and hard.
What is it you see that horrifies you so?

Crying.
Racked with pain so sharp
you sob and flinch.
I wish I could feel it for you.

Resting.
Something I barely witness.
Your brain giving you no peace,
your eyelids refuse to close.

Screaming.
Returns to remind me
you are pacing the floor again.
I will walk with you always.