Mellow Joe

Most people notice my sunny disposition, one that can cause blindness & irreparable skin damage. They remark on the fact that all of my poetry is so cheerful and positive, wonder how a person who finds everything so funny, could ever be sad about anything. But what they don't know is that, I, like most other people, have encountered my fair share of difficulty. How my brain is an inhospitable residence I only stay in because I was forced to make my home there. However, what goes on behind closed doors remains a mystery to the ignorant. As a child, I laid prone on the floor, organizing my toy cars, and later, books on a shelf. Flying into a frenzy when someone messed them up; invariably causing more disorder in my wake. Anxious moments spent, gnawing on fingers & toes, nails chewed off into jagged calcium crescents. Nervous air-drumming when I'm writing or stressed, or my bouncing knee when I'm patient or trying to quickly get through a book. Not so fond memories of standing alone in corners, away from the crowd, when having confidence was an unrealized pipe-dream I feverishly entertained. No man's an island, but I've been a peninsula who took pleasure in his eroding shores. What normal kid talks to himself and has night terrors? What 6th grader has an identity crisis, especially to the extent of believing he doesn't exist or is incapable of going back to a way of being that made him comfortable; how he felt like a stranger to himself, family, and friends? The weight of depression straddled me to the point that I wished for a broken leg like a horse running the gauntlet. Warnings of ed up family members-- therapists, mental institutions, lives of reclusion... how close I ran the risk of becoming like them. But, at least, I have the perfect conditions for making art. Even if weird thoughts sometimes strike at inconvenient moments... I wouldn't wish being normal on my worst enemy, because I once wished it on myself, and I've finally realized I can use my tendencies to my benefit.