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If you were my lover and I was your love
Would you see me as I am
And if in my love of you I picked up your burden
And carried it
Or your cross and walked, carrying it,
Alongside you
Would you see this and lay down temptation
To save me from myself?
I have been far removed from perfection
And traveled the outskirts of divine grace
If God has seen me with love
It is unjustified, and therefore pure
But goodness friend, I have prayed for you to draw close
I want in all my wanting to know you deeper
I crave in all my cravings for you to want me
Like God, built in such image, I am the lover
And you, fallen darling, the beloved
So drop to your knees before me and pray
So fall before you I assuage compliance
Cast away from you these trifles
Succumb to me in truth
Let us mirror creation and become
The love the bounds unloosed
If there is one thing in life for which, I truly long
It is to see and be seen
To love and be loved
To be whole in discovery
Without hindrance or hesitation
I am alive and awake after a night of desperate self-medicating. This is not something I like to do. I have a lot of experience substituting real meds for alcohol, weed and pills (benzos or pain killers) but have been faithful to script (when applicable) for the last four years. So it is no wonder that I feel awful, like a total failure after isolating all evening with the trifold wonder combination.
The socio-psychological reasons for this off behavior are apparent. Primarily, the lack of gainful employment and lack of prospect have doused my self-esteem in gasoline and fired it to ash. Secondarily, there is the availability of any number of illegal drugs through my now wagonless companion. Actually, I have not used him to obtain drugs at all, only as inspiration. Also, I have not “gotten loaded” (his terminology) with him. I prefer for him not to see.
So, why all this talk about self-medicating and shame? It leads me back to one of the primary problems of being haunted by Bipolar I Disorder (like having demons crouched on back, wispering in ear) WITHOUT health insurance or sufficient funds to purchase the appropriate combination of meds. Sure, I have some free Lithium from a clinic that helps with that sort of thing. Problem is, I need more than Lithium. Oh yes, so much more!
<br>Painting by Andrew Abbott<br>http://fineartamerica.com/images-medium/bipolar-now-andrew-abbott.jpg
Why the lithium not always working
And so leg twitches and creative word projections cut from the brain
Hypersensitivity and irritation at every sound that is too loud or too quiet
And the itchy scratchy contact lenses and the pressing of a belt into belly flesh, and oh, bladder cries questionably
Child and kitten play nearby with lots of noise and the music I selected is not a sensible overture
God, this is the time I need grace for my sick brain moves my soul into hiding
My fuse is so short. I am a bomb about to go off. Child turns the TV on and the sudden intrusion makes me scream. Turn it off!
I cannot find the function button. I am on pause. I am broken down with all the wrong firings fixing to fuck me for good. So it seems in these times. And the leg will not stop shaking.
Then she cries and wishes for me to comfort her but I am scratching and clawing to get out of my own skin and so I send her to her room instead and continue to pace the living room, feeling trapped beneath a cap of scratchy hair.
I probably need to clean the house but again the mania immobilizes and I am depressed and manic at the same time.
That is why I cannot write poetry. My creative opening is closed, down for construction. It feels like it’s all over. I have nothing to offer but I think I need another pill. Which kind? So many choices.
My Dear Hollowed Out Heart,
Fifteen days ago I broke away from under God’s grace and made the wrong phone call. There was a direct commandment from God and I broke it. Shouldn’t ‘ave done it. The sin was avoidance, or even more deadly – the sin was sloth. I gave into the pull of depression, sunk down low in the sadness. I pretended in my self-lies to be true to love, but I was only true to form. How could I resist the pull of infatuation, of my own addiction to being with him?
My heart, this was betrayal, of you, my holy endowment. My heart, I fear I am truly guilty of fear of a certain pain. The pain: heartbreak. I have not wanted you to hurt. I have left the vase solid on the shelf when I should have shook the house and let all the artifacts fall to the floor. The pieces are what God wants. Every disaster I may be born again, glued whole from shattered parts. No more an empty vase, but a sacred amulet worn around the neck of a noble princess.
White, grainy fingers pressed tightly into the throat flesh
and hoping for a slow death so you can feel the pain and know the approach, see it coming
Drenched in sweat from a fierce love killing
for I will not be stuck in this unreciprocated romance and sick immobile hell of my own emotional choosing
Rationality, logic and survival instinct make the kill almost gratifying
Rumi says, We are sent to eat the world
And we find a million struggles the same as one
Foiled at the first attempt
Brought down to our knees
In depression desolate, destroyed
As the nature of woman – broken
Broken apart by shame and abandoned
Beyond the walls of the secret garden, we are
Crowded inside our heads
The statue of woman lonely for recognition
For queen status, for kind hands folded delicately
To be brought back to life with a kiss
For a taste of pie, tart on the lips and hot
For pie a la mode, with the cool sweetness on top
Woman in lust for the rough and rugged cutting
Souls open, legs open, our bodies receiving
The life essence coming
And we moaning sounds like crying
We shake,
Our tongues fat flesh knead like dough
Pulled from the fire ready
Jesus is knocking
Hard on the outside, sounds hollow within
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