i'm planning on disappearing for a couple of days.
i'm growing exhausted of the games that we play.
"you're fine," "you'll get through this," but how do i know it?
it's not nearly enough just simply to show it.
maybe for you, but not so for me,
the act of acting happy can't induce sanity.
i know perfection isn't psychiatry's intent,
but silence is painful; it's leaving me spent.
i miss the crazy me, the way that i felt
when my mind was a whirlwind, when i felt like myself.
now i feel like i'm an ocd bargain-shopper,
a one dollar whore, a lousy pill-popper--
broke and fucked and addicted to prescription.
i'll have you know i pay dearly for this fucking addiction.
addicted to thinking and doing what's right
by society's standards--told to open up and bite,
throw it back. "there you go. this'll make you feel better."
now i'm part of society, rid of the red letter
(tacked on to my blouse, just above my left breast)
that screamed, "here's my problem. i'm not like the rest."
i have trouble coping with ordinary sadness;
when something goes wrong, my mind turns to madness.
and even when everything should be alright
i find myself restless and can't sleep at night.
and despite restlessness, i don't do a damn thing!
i can't find enjoyment. what used to make me sing
now makes me uncomfortable, anxious, tired.
i'm nonplussed by life. i suspect my brain isn't wired
corrrectly, my neurotransmiters not sure where they're going.
And i'm left with pills; i'm stuck with knowing
that maybe next month zoloft won't work so well.
"try prozac," then luvox, then wellbutrin. hell!,
the medication's not helping, far as i can tell.
lately, when i drive on the highway i dwell
on the thought of steering straight towards a telephone pole.
maybe death will feel lighter. maybe i'll feel more whole.
maybe part of me never made it into this world.
this part's sitting here; that part has been hurled
into some other plane. when i die, i'll go get it!
and i'll fuse it with this part, i won't ever let it
abandon the rest of me, the part that is central.
they call it the soul, but all words will eventually
fail me, curtail me, reduce me to sounds
till there's no hearing or seeing and no coming down--
no feeling my parts as they merge into brown.
only feeling my life (now as small as a fist),
and then feeling nothing. thoughts, only, exist.
this is my ending, my mind free to reel
where feeling doesn't matter and matter doesn't feel.

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