When Ebola’s fever begins to rage,
The prognosis isn’t nice,
Monoclonal antibodies
are needed from three mice.
The mice must first become exposed
to a weakened viral strain.
Their antibodies harvested
and combined with those of man.
Strangely the proteins that we need
are grown best in a ****.
A modified tobacco plant
will do the job indeed.
The serum, that derives from plants,
had not had human trials.
(but eight of ten young chimpanzees
endorse  what’s in that vial.)
Our missionaries, sick unto death
were clearly in no position
to refuse to try the medicine
that might provide remission.
Their rebound was miraculous.
To Atlanta now they fly.
Man finds himself in debt to a mouse.
“Good job, little guy!”

6years later
My mind calls it illusions
I think it's because we lacked Kodak moments

But how do you create a moment
You never had the time
I wasnt used to spending mine with you

Yet you have created a void
I miss you
I convinced myself that we have had moments

Although everything you had left
Faded
The void has taken over

It has created moments
Non existing ones
I miss you

The Void will never fill
We never had those moments
Memory missing
My love for you will never fade

How can I explain this mystery
Of the amazing grace that's changed the heart in me
All because of Christ and Christ alone

It's not who I am or what I've done
There's no hope for me in how I perform
All because of Christ and Christ alone

There's a great chasm between that separates
The love of God from my mistakes
All because of Christ and Christ alone

The arms held out on that shameful cross
Endured sins pain to endear the lost
All because of Christ and Christ alone

In Christ I trust, in Christ I am
No great mystery in where I stand
All because of Christ and Christ alone

Christ is life, that's all I need to know
Where I need to be is Christ alone
All because of Christ and Christ alone

I just don't know any more
Born with the thirst
My apathy competes with it daily
You bathe in my joyful countenance
Never splashing further but surface deep
I know you are hurting
We all are, in some form or another
I do wish I could ease your pain
Please, just once, refrain
I call you up to cry
Twists  into all about you
Words of solace tumble from these numb lips
Stretched thin over a veneer of caring
The hard part is always the swallow
How do I get around this goose egg
Closing up my throat
Defense mechanism meant for strangers
I don't shed tears for the self-inflicted
*At least you have a choice

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines