Parmnesia
Fall back into lucidity,
A surrounding
Where there is no such thing as clarity.
The power that is confounding.
Your world is confused and distorted,
Nothing in order,
All is unsorted.
The only certainty,
If any at all,
Is that of absurdity
Seemingly informal.
You abruptly arouse,
Only to find yourself falling.
You continue to drowse,
Suddenly you’re crawling.
Living? Or dreaming?
Hearing voices,
Why are you screaming?
‘Make the right choices’
Only to realize they are lying,
you’re going insane.
They say ‘give up’
‘Stop trying!’
Something is wrong…
With your brain, that
not even, professionals can explain.
You haven't got psychosis,
Or schizophrenia.
It’s like an uncomfortable sensation,
like dysesthesia.
What’s wrong with you?
Why are you sad?
There’s nothing anyone can do.
But feel bad.
Fear the worst…
Of going mad.
They pin it to your past,
They call it trauma.
Each day might be your last,
You tried to warn her.
All the signs,
And warning.
Cutting lines,
Evening and morning.
Still they want more.
To rid your soul,
So you purge,
It’s under control.
You get more of an urge,
To draw shapes,
On a perfectly clean wrist.
The sharp drags as it scrapes,
The voices assist,
The veins are just missed.
Your mind is confused,
A little twisted.
Your heart is bruised,
Emotionally restricted.
But that is how you want it,
Until you finally commit….
suicide.
Copyright © April Willcox | Year Posted 2020
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