How It Felt

How it Felt

I am the parched world

ripping myself apart for a drop of water

killing, hurting, defiling,

so ravenous am I.

Cracks wrest open in my chalky skin,

twisting wider and deeper into great dry gorges

whirlwinds of dust strike through me.

Clouds of dust and dirt rise and cover me

and darkness overtakes me

as I choke on air that fills my dry lungs with piles of dirt and sand.

I am gasping, desperate, dead.

And then:

a drop.

And another.

And the water begins to fall,

fall,

fall,

fall,

fall,fall,fall,fall…...

BOOM!

A great deluge rushes fiercely over me.

My parched and dried up body fills with water.

Clean, pure, sanctified water.

Oversaturated, I can hold no more but still it comes,

still it washes over me in great waves

sinking to my core.

Still it keeps coming.

I am drowning,

I am dead.

The sun begins to come out of the clouds

exposing my death

exposing my life.

I am the wet world,

fertile and ready to grow.

I hold a tiny seed that slowly sprouts,

unfurls,

wakes to a fresh new world.

I am a million questions budding,

every breath a new revelation,

eager and hungry,

I am fed.

Suspect Secondary

Suspect Secondary

Sitting here in this exact chair yesterday,

giving Carol her break,

I was thinking how amazing it is to me

how close we've come after tearing so far apart.

I was thinking that feeling safe and secure again had sort of crept up on me over time.

I was thinking that though I really wanted more of your attention, I didn't deserve it anyway and that i could be happy in this relationship as it is.

I was thinking that so much of the time when you weren't able to be there, I had a pile of friends to shore me up. To hold me up when I started to fall.

I was thinking how lucky I am.

Was.

I'm talking.

Why aren't you?

Now I'm sitting here, 24 hours later, totally broken. Having worked so hard for nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You said you would help me, be there for me. You said we would do it together. But I keep begging for help and you keep not answering.

I had no idea what you were thinking but really, would you rather let me hurt me, us, again?

Would it be better to grill me on all those good calm comfortable days?

Because yeah, that's such a better idea. That's an awful lot like watching me stand on the edge of the bridge wondering if I'll jump, and thinking ‘no, this is a bad time to bother her, I'll tell her I'm concerned tomorrow when she's having a better day’. If tomorrow comes without incident, or just comes.

I'm talking.

Why aren't you?

So what if I get mad? We'll still be dealing with it. I won't be blissfully wandering around thinking things are so much better now that my bipolar isn't running the show. I mean, it's beating the crap out of me, but at least it's not ruining everyone else.

And now I realize you're just holding me at arm's length, waiting for me to hurt you again.

Now I know that every time I sink into the  mud, and l desperately need you, it's going to do nothing but put me under suspicion again. Great time for that.

I used to be your one and only.

Now you're married to bipolar,

And I am your secondary.

Your suspect Secondary.

Now I know why you're not talking.

Now I understand my place.

Empty

Empty

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

Where I don't dare say what i'm thinking

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

That can be filled with fear or happiness

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

That can comprehend hopelessness

This empty page

This reflection of me

This empty page

This empty life.

Raging River

Raging River

Written for Patients Like Me

(What Touched By Fire Means For Me)

I burn from within,

torrents of flame rage through me,

words in every order

carried along in its current.

They heat my hands as I race

to write them down fast enough.

Idea after idea after idea

errupting, pouring out of me.

They are in control

I am a vessel that never runs dry.

But my human body collapses

under the searing pain of

relentless inspiration.

Finally, found drained and broken

on the floor,

they start the drugs again.

The liquid ice that consumes my fire.

In a haze I see the river calm, and drain,

and freeze solid.

I am forced inside an ice cube

and kept there.

Contained.

But while I lie in torture

a flame flickers on deep inside me

and slowly it will melt the ice

and I will once again

embrace the current,

and let it take me

wherever it wants to go.

Inspiration

Inspiration

Suddenly!

I saw a glimpse of it:

that desperately easy ability to write.

To let words flit across my page

like a butterfly on a warm current of air.

It licked my mind

and fluttered past my eyes.

I slowly stretched out my palm,

and it grazed my skin and landed there.

Terrified of the devastation I will face

when it flutters away again,

I watch mesmerised

as tiny feet and silken wings

brush my blissed hand.

She is magnificent,

iridescent purple woven through

filigree black velvet wings.

Her beauty is natural, and flawless.

She won't last long,

everything that touches her wings

will make them ever more ragged.

The very flowers that sustain her

are slowly destroying her.

I hold her so very carefully in my hand

and wonder,

how long will she last?

Why I Love My Job

Why I Love My Job

For Tiny Aaron

On my shoulder

the solid weight of you.

On my cheek

the touch of a tiny wisp of hair.

In my hand

the loose round ball of your head.

On my hip

your little limp legs.

In the crook of my arm

your baby powder bottom.

On my shoulder

your soft mouth sucking on my skin.

In my ears

contented sighs and gurgles.

Across my neck

the rhythmic pulse of featherlight breath.

As you lay across me in slumber,

we rock us off to sleep.

Annahallé's Song

Annahallé’s song 
Written in tandem with Leonard Miller

Page by page, one stroke at a time turning numbers into roller coasters, dripping crimson over a sea of images forged by words that crossed the lines, head bowed heavily over a book as thick as the unrelenting Russian mud that thwarted the Germans. Long soft hair piled messy on top of your head, streaked with color from the fading sun. The warm lights of home bathe your desk in soft light that glints off focused eyes. From the kitchen I hear you humming because like Lindsey’s flying notes, physics is just a matter of math. This is a perfect union you have discovered. As the aroma of your favorite squash soup catches your attention I am rewarded with a grateful smile, and while my mother’s heart wishes to release you from the heavy weight of your constant drive for academic excellence, it also calls out, with tearful knowledge of the consequences, saying fly my child, spread your wings and fly.