Limbs and Me
I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
That’s what mental illness is.
Not in my mind,
There’s an apple tree.
Around there.
The filing cabinet is there but stretched thin.
I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
So I’ll sing a song about it.
Loud alarms ringing.
It makes me happy so.
Still fraying.
Afraid of alarms, but running toward them.
Everything could be red but it’s not that way.
Everything could be: so it is.
I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
I’m not an octopus.
Nothing grows back anymore.
Except for mental illness.
Yes.
In a dissociative state.
They would rain back down.
Like a cannonball!
Spiralling toward the sky and me.
In the end I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
Or so they say.
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