Poetry as a mental illness.
Interesting proposition.

Poets do not see like others.
Poets do not feel like others.
Often, they do not live like others.
Ergo: Poets are not like others.

Assuming others are normal
(assuming that normal exists)
then poets are not normal.

Does that make poetry a mental illness?

I haven't a clue and the mad-hatter
is throwing a party for which
I cannot be late. Forget normal.
Come along. We shall take tea
and play croquet with
flamingoes and hedgehogs,
while speaking in puzzles and rhymes.

That feels normal enough to me.
   ~mce

Do not think you are free
because you have nice clothes,
plenty to eat and a mortgage.
Do not think yourself free
because you attend a good college,
and get to party and have fun
before the student loans hit.
Do not think yourself free
because you are white
and consider yourself a good citizen
while those others cause trouble.
It takes a lifetime to free your head
and that doesn't begin to guarantee
that your body and words will remain free.
We have forgotten that freedom
is never just about stuff.
Stuff is the drug they use to lock you up.
It is the new ***** of the masses.
Only those who can proudly walk naked
cradling the Revolution in their hearts,
willing to pick up their guns
and die for that Revolution,
can ever be well and truly really free.
   ~mce

I have shed layers underneath layers of hiding
To give you my undoing.
I have saved myself for you to witness this.
I have been waiting to bare my truths, no more than once,
But just for you.
I have been saving my yes… for you.
And locking away my vulnerable for the man who would not destroy me in it.
It is your lips, your hands, and your body letting down its bullet proof.
There are no walls here,
No mountains to separate my hands
From your back, your lips, your chest,
All skin, on skin, on skin.
I have been building on my freedom,
And I am here now
Ready now… to revel in it,
With you.
Only you.
Always you.
I trust you not to ruin me,
But do not be scared to break me… down in this room,
Break down in this room
Let go inside me,
Fall slowly beside me.
I am no judge
There are no rules.
My body was crafted with you in mind,
Your hands were skilled in prelude to my pleasure.
There is no stopping here,
No moving too fast,
No going to slow.
I am meant for you, now.
You are safe in me.
Say the word,
Say it,
We can die a million times together here in this room.


-Indigo Morrison

She is content.

She knows her mind;
keeps a close watch
on her heart.

She makes appointments,
She goes to lunches.

She is not a woman
who can be snowed.

She has known pain
and isn't looking
to add more.

Solitude is her
companion and friend.

Wine, poems to write,
a warm dog beside her.

How do I insert
myself into such
a complete life?

I am a stranger, a monk,
a poor man in a shack,
broken by war, poverty,
bad luck and life itself.

No woman would
call me a catch.

What can I offer
such completeness?

Only what I have:
open, empty hands
and a living heart
that will be true.

I don't know
if it will do,
but this is my
humble
offering to you.

    ~mce