discoherent's Diaryland Diary

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sugar, you're wrong... try poetic *demise*


Part 1.

i know you try to help,
and i commend
and admire
the attempt
but you do not grasp it
.. so many don't

all previous advice
has led me to the
rash assumption
that a med free life
is the right life...
and i,
on some levels,
do agree...

but here i stand,
nearly med free
(and still glad
to not worry
of the horrible
side effects)
and fret
of how i shall
deal...

and you don't
have the answer for that...

medications, i understand
are a daunting proposition
and have gained a terrible reputation
because of how freely they offer
nay ENCOURAGE
others to take them...

so when someone
-me-
needs them...
you all look
shake your heads
then come up with a way
the right way
for me to deal...

"she needs to find god"
-i've found him and he left

"she needs to see therapists"
-let me count the time i've lost with them

"she needs to find herself"
-you're right, i never spend hours writing journal entries, constantly calculating everything i say, why i say it... let me guess, you know me better than i do, right?


"she needs to work on it"
-uh, you're so right, again, i didn't spend 3 + weeks in a psych ward, every waking minute dedicated solely on changing who i am...

and my personal favourite:
"she needs to not get so angry / she needs to just think happily"
-... do i even need to elaborate? apparently so...
there's this lame little chemical in the brain.. seritonan... yours is probably fine, if you don't wake up every morning hoping to get hit by a truck, or go to sleep every night hoping to die while you rest... mine isn't, chemical imbalance can be moderated with mental training, can never be cured, but can be managed with evening out the chemical by adding the chemical... get it?

fin
-----------------

Part 2

so much for a poetic devise
with each word i write
i am concreting my poetic demise

don't worry though,
give it another week
and soon this will be buried
lost deep amidst these
random
inconsistent
discordent
raving
sentance fragments

a little odd,
it could be concluded
that i am the author
spilling out these
grammatically disturbed
verses.

(don't worry though
i never talk like this
in person...
just on a flashing
little screen)

it's somehow been
categorized as
poetry
thus the opening statement.
i suppose it could be
considered abstract,
perhaps?

the only poetry
i've ever cared to write
has been rather
uneducated,
limerick - crap
far too set
on ensuring
the rhyme
than to actually put
much effort
into the point...

so i suppose
i shall concede,
say that i am
unintentionally
creating poetry...

but that does stray
a tad
from the point i am attempting to make
this sunlit morning
the point being :
of the neon abyss
seemingly engulfing me
moreso with each passing event...

through screaming match
after the previous
through slammed doors
and bruised fists
(but you should see the wall)
i somehow ended up
merely giving...
up...

i do this,
ever so often, you know...

but it's always the sign
the hint
that it's all about to
hit the pavement...
(and i've never won against that)

i wanted to cry
i wished
i had cried....
for when this
momentarily comforting
condition of numbness
strikes...

soon follows the downfall...

i do, on occasion
question why this is...
but mixed up between
the sad
and the pscyhe
the insipid moments
bring waves of relief...

and my dear mate,
pirate as i may be
waves of any sort tend to,
have an uneasy
affect upon me...
so fickle they are,
to passing changes,
quick to anger, themselves...
uncaring to those
they drown,
with undercurrents
or tidal waves...

and as much as i fantasize of
*death*
i'd rather not
simply be swept away...
not by the ocean itself,
and most certainly
not by the currents of
my own fickle
and quick to anger
emotions...

no,
i'd much rather a poetic
departure...
one made as a statement
of unbridled and undying love
or faith, belief...
something,
not lying there,
dead for an unworthy cause,
upon a cold linoleum floor...
bottles and blood
as the decorations...

(but i've never thought this through before)

don't make a hasty
move
calling the people you think
will help
(and white suits are not the way they come)
i am not planning anything
just elaborating upon
a point
long since strayed from...

believe me babe...
i am here still,
a little more cold
for the current forcast,
you'll like it that way,
until my demise,
and not the one of
poetic kind...

the one, that is coming
and i don't think you've even noticed yet...
but just hope for my sake,
that tomorrow, i cry...

fin pt 2
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8:59 a.m. - Sunday, Aug. 27, 2006

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