The cup crashes to the floor, it shatters spitting it's contents out. The man smiles, he squats. He carefully scoops the broken porcelain into his left hand. He squeezes tight. Blood drips from his clenched fist and hits the cool tile mixing with the spilt tea. The florescent lighting swings overhead. His smile is now just clenched teeth. The only thing in his life that he has any kind of a grip on are the sharp peices cutting into his hand. The ground lurches up at him quickly. His head bounces off the floor and his hand unclenches releasing ****** peices of porcelain. Hes having a hard time remembering, what's his name? what's his name? Did he drink out of the broken cup? what was in it? Where is he? His head jerks up off the floor face wet with tea and blood.

The floor is hardwood, it needs to be refinished badly. The light flickers and switches off. He struggles to his knees and hears a shuffling in the shadows. He freezes and a dim blue light fills the room. He flexes his hand and the remaining peices of porcelain fall off and hit the ground, they make such a satisfying sound. He turns scanning the room unable to decipher the shadows.

Have you ever heard of medication induced bipolar.
Three years of complete insanity.
None of it was me. It wasnt me. It never came from me.
I sit on the same couch hallucination free. Such ******* clarity. It all makes sense. I was never paranoid, the medication was paranoid. I could scream till my lungs collapse "IT WASNT ME. NONE OF IT WAS MY FAULT. I WASNT MYSELF"
I was loaded with antipsychotics that made me psychotic.
The second I made my environment safe and came off the prescriptions it all went away.
It was never me.
I wasnt myself.
It wasnt my fault.
I dont have to blame me.
All of it was drugs and environment.
I was grieving the death of my first love and I was ***** in my own home where I thought I was safe. I snapped and I thought it was my fault. It wasnt insanity it was a normal human response to trauma and grief. I was just a person hit with some painful events. I was just a human brain trying desperately to cope with my reality. I didnt **** my relationship, I wasnt crazy, it wasnt me, I didn't do it. It was never me.

The light's different
I'm heavy with thought
It pours out of my ears
Could this have been in there the whole time
Under my nose
Under the surface
Like poisonous gas in the lakebed

You're a dumb dude
Secretly filming the ****
You do shady *** **** and write poems about it
35 and writing like your 15
With poems like yours it's not hard to be mean 
Your just a man out of his prime bent on the obsene
The cops coming to your house clearly didn't freak you out
So maybe I'll tell your mom what your all about.

You **** and I hate everything about you. Stop writing poems about me.

The man behind the curtain returns to the unseen after an extended factory tour.
No guests linger.

There is a light, it's flickering a pale white blue.
The carpet is rough on my face, silence permeates the house. I should get up.
I should pull myself into personhood. My hands tremor, I let my finger tips find the end of the carpet. Skimming the floor boards shaking fingers beginning to tap tap tap out the only sound.
I used to drink the restlessness away, now I am left a craving in its place. Tap tap tap say the fingers.

Violent imagery flashes across my mind, car crashes,  rending metal, glass breaking, bones snapping there are sharp falls and hit and runs and stabbing on the sidewalk,  knife sliding into my flesh. Leaping into oncoming traffic, my heart skipping beats and laughter always my laughter. The final moment of freedom replayed over an over.  I can't tell you why it makes me smile, I don't know why myself.
Tap tap tap tap tap irrattic finger tips might be getting angry. Have your limbs been angry at you before?

Rolling over the popcorn ceiling swirls,
I realized a while back if I pay attention to the patterns they shift, I hallucinate mildly on most days. I think I might miss it if I were being honest. I focus on my skin, the way the air touches it, the way cold feels, if I savour this enough I almost feel high, high is almost always on the other side of sensation.
I might always be a touch high compared to how the average Joe feels. This is not a desirable state, but if you talk to me tomorrow I might say it's a gift.

I slowly stand, my knees cracking fingertips tap tap tapping up the wall. Giving up drinking was like giving up one of my last connections to my dearly  departed. Gin and alcoholism kept a part of him close to me. Medication and therapy take me further and further away from the person who knew him.

I walk barefoot, the texture of the floor boards underfoot, stepping into the kitchen I pull a wine glass from the cupboard. I want to hear it sing, I flick the glass, I hold the opening of the glass near my ear. I can feel the sound touching my ear. Soft ringing until it's quiet again, I've tried to savour the experience by listening in to the sounds of my world.
Listening to the slow crunch of a crisp apple, the sound of the city, the bubbling of the fish tank. Perfect beautiful sounds ripe with happening.
You can hear the happening of what is at all times if you choose to.

There are other ways to savour, I think it helps to be here and now, the savouring it I mean. By "it" I mean everything your senses allow you to perceive, the everything that is your sensory image of the world around you. Your brain built the image of the world, it's a reflection of you. The world is a mirror to your mind.
Often the reflection is not something I'm proud of, other times I'm exploding with pride.

I wish I could share what I've found with him, but I wasn't fast enough, I wasn't paying attention.

Attention to here and now has been the key I keep dropping and picking up.