My Mental Guide
Mental illness slithers like floss.
Hurts like stabbing lip gloss.
Runs around like trash with feet.
But that’s not the cause of retreat.
It’s globs of smiling overflowing.
And patterns of unknowing.
He walked up one day, like a dried up jellyfish.
Asked what kind of coat I wish.
But I’d rather be chilled than endure a soft jacket.
Which stings like a loud racket.
Mental illness isn’t like just any wish in a well.
And it’s more than being unwell.
It’s junk piled in a corner shed.
And fangs appeared on me instead.
An apparition or a voice in the trash can?
That’s when I tossed my clothes and ran.
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