Anything I desire 
I swear it to the moon 
Desires me back 
I craved you 
I wanted you 
I needed you 
I felt you 
I touched you 
I heard you 
I saw you 
I loved you 
And yet people says that 
You only exists inside my head
Sunshine’s If true 
You’re the most alluring memory 
That I’ve ever created in a lifetime.

Edmond1000

Insane

Jun 4, 2026

June 2026

2026

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glenn-currier

The poet has a great ability to create his or her own reality. What one creates reflects on their values, ideas, challenges, and character. Thanks for this Edmund.

moscato_gato

removed.u685248

Those 5 last lines sum up almost to the very day the entire last year of my life as far as the most important of things, merely *2* days off in fact brother from the day I just had to finally break off contact with the center of my universe, my daughter, and just 4 days after she had my grandson Tucker (named after Tuckrr Carlson, so already that says a lot...)

I could put up with my daughter's thefts from me, from the 4,000 cash, the most my chq.ing account would spit out in one single day from an ATM, the emotional blackmailing and pity parties for yet more money (so often so that I'd have to bite my tongue literally until the edge bled as not to tell her to climb down off that cross kiddo, you're taking up all of Our Lord's room up there!!!), to right down to a stupid pair of chromoly nose-hair scissors that of course I'd have just given her if she'd have just asked, but the opportunity for her to gaslight was just too delicious for her to pass by, lol... sigh. She really loved the lies the most where I knew she was lying, and she knew that I knew she was lying, and I'd even tell her that I knew that she knew that I knew she was lying (that's a real brain-twister, lol, I know... and I lol because I need to or I'd start crying and never stop because I'll never see her again, nor my grandchildren ever, not even once. 

Yeppers, I could bear the thefts everywhere in-between to feed that hungriest of all hard drug addictions, blow/crack, untreated cocaine addiction... I could deal with those, Im an addict myself with a rdcrmy relapse, so I'd beef judged that as long as someone is working on it, I'd always met her where she was at... but racism against my new spouse?? 

Having a deceased "squaw" (as her partner calls my late wife), that was bad enough, Kimimela being a stomach-turning blight on the family tree (but thank GOD at least my First Nations daughter died as well so my first-born wouldn't have to call a baby "squaw" her sister...), but with Kimi having passed away in 1999 there was at least a respectable chunk of time so my daughter didnt have to feel quite as much shame, though she still did things like reject a sscted feather DNA-tested to around the 1820s, saying she'd have to hide it well, just so I was warned, though it was a huge honour for her son to get this every 3rd generation snowy owl feather, that if Tyler, her partner, were to find this precious heirloom he'd throw it into the trash and my daughter said she'd be unable to stop him. 

Can you even just *imagine *the embarrassment, the UTTER shame my poor, long-suffering daughter, who one called me a "race-traitor" (what ever TF that means), has been put through because of her father, the worst thing a man can be in this land here, the Canadian Prairies, where Joni Michell once called the most racist place on Earth, me, the worst thing z settler man can be here, "a fucking Indian-lover".

... this is truly how she and her partner think, and I can put up with a lot, but I REFUSE to abide racism, not in my friends, my extended family, my siblings, or even my children, no sir, not on my life, no sir, never, no exceptions, I will not abide racism of any sort. Someone at a dinner once said something racist against S. Asians and I got up, put of coat/shoes and walked out without a word. I won't eat at the same table as a racist. If we all rejected racism so plainly and fiercely racism could truly be wiped out, we just have to overcome our fear at ruffling people's feathers who much deservedly should be ruffled. It isn't an impossibility and those that say it is very much almost always have an investment if done sort in *not* eradicating racism.

This all sounds like just a whole messa me merely emotionally unloading  & complaining, yeah? That I want to make this poem allllll mine, and all my brother Edmund writes to just be allll about me. That's probably true! But to really explain the HUGE impact 5 lines of poetry can have I didn't know how else to get that across, and therefore how to let the poet know how he made me feel much, much less alone on a particularly lonely, lonely night for this reader for reasons I don't need to share (for a change, lol), with a condition glaring up where the first things to go are my sense of proportion along with my impulse control, hahaha, just great for leaving concisely meaningful poem comments, huh?? Oh man...

Sp it is that, the wanting to be understood, but more to *really* share, to deeply get across with that gravitas or pathos... I dont know the right word, I'm so bad with not knowing how to describe too well and with which words even though with 5 lines you evoked the entire last year of my life, more than evoked, you git tight to the worst part, with a daughter so blinded by racism and so embarassed that her father was *again* married to a First Nations woman that when people would hypothetically ask her now that she's cut out of my life, "What exactly happened between you and your da??"...

I just have to add, too, that both my late wives and my late daughter's people had many genocides against them, from literally physical genocide from US cavalry sabres and small-pox infected blankets to cultural genocide when kids were snatched up, never to see their parents again.

As an e.g. of cultural genocide my late elder Walter, a tongue all white scar tissue because he'd had so many stick pins stuck through it for every time he spoke his Cree language, he was snatched when he was 2 from some Rez' in Ontario, brought inexplicably to Saskatchewan to a residential school here, and just dropped off unceremoniously on a street corner in Saskatoon at 15 years old with only a birth certificate and 5 bucks in his pocket... he spent a lifetime looking for his family, but he didn't know his surname so tragically he just never found them.

So you are probably seeing those last 5 lines could easily be about Ineigenous people, often homeless, addicted, but for what Ice been told, the worst? Invisible. To be invisible to settlers, to be existing only inside a person's head the noble savage on the flip side of a buffalo nickel, the sports-cartoon-logos, that kind of existing inside one's head, the worst kind, the nonexistence, whether intended or not your words spoke of that particular pain righ to me brother. And alllll that was just for context for this.

As my spouse passed away just 6 weeks after her diagnosis/prognosis, on August 13th, now my daughter can easily claim, and does she ever, killing two birds with one stone, so she has an excuse why I cut her outta my life (she's self-diagnosed me as having multiple personalities, which made me stop and go hmmm if I did have this how woukd I know?? But my psych nurse/psychiatrist that treat my bipolar ii disorder assure me that multiple personalities don't even exist other than movies and TV thrillers... whew!!!)

So all that context comes down to this, that your 5 lines summed up *perfectly* almy society so very ill that it went from shooting and starving Indigenous people, to wiping out their culture and language (which worked sadly very well) in children, to me living,  my late wife, and my living daughter who is the embodiment of all that racist irrational hatred. 

A former Canadian Prime Minister, Jean Chretien, said in the late 60s that with the rules he put in The Indian Act that the ultimate solution to all the land claims and treaty promises was to structure the rules so that in a hundred years there wont be a single "status Indian" left in Canada, the entire idea that they ever existed, just as my daughter claims insanely that my wife never existed, so desperate to want not to have had not one, but two former "squaw" mother-in-laws, that Kimimela and Iy&#233;ya, they can only exist inside my crazy father's head, just as Canadian law seeks to make every single status M&#233;tis, First Nations, and Inuit person to some day, as soon as the law possibly can, to make them but a rumour, a historical fairy tale, a people who were of the land, in a land that was of the people, to have only existed inside all of our collective heads.

Now my hand shakes with fear, that old fear so burned into us here in these parts that as ridiculous as it seems, that old fear of being called an "Indian-lover", as by my long dead father as I told him about the last sweat I'd been to, trying to work up the courage to try to tell him that I'd already been married for almost 5 years but still not told him or anyone outside of work because of that racism, that my wife and I made that choice.

... and I still wake up, cold sweat, middle of night, now that Kimimela and Iy&#233;ya both only exist inside my head, how I wonder if it was Kimimela feeling like my dirty little Indian secret, while still alive already only existing inside my head as she was, and really still is... people's racism pushing all of them into existing onky inside of our collective heads, y'know? Racism not gone, just not said outloud, or at least not publically, making excuses for the racism, or hide it behind figleaves, my daughter trying to blot out my late wife's very existant and I wsmg to rend my shirt and SCREAM at God like King David did...

But then I remember to read the rest of the poem, all of it, over and over, and then I see the truth of it. It somehow all is about Iy&#233;ya, with all happening so quickly, that in ten days, Feb. 20th, it woukd have been only our first anniversary, impetuously getting married only 18 days of (re-)meeting, like somehow we knew already that cancer was already growing past any control in her breast, brain, lung, pancreas... 

AMD instead of tearing my clothes and howling at the moon ny brother Edmund to instead swear *to* the moon, and the moon smiles down at me the way it did shining full on the Moon Wherr The Sun Stands In The Midfke, the day of the Sun Dance thst is forbidden to a settler like me so please ignore the large purple scars on my chest, they are just reminders for me that you were and still are much, much more Iy&#233;ya, She-The-Precious-One-Who-Was-Lost-Forever-But-Miraculously-Found-Again, my Psipsicala, Li'l Hopper since a wee girl, much, much more than just a figment existing inside my head, for we desired, we craved, we wanted, we needed, we felt, we touched, we heard, we saw, and me, a damned White lecherous cradle-robbin' wasichu, and you, a salacious homeless drug-addicted squaw slut, that's all the world, meaning also my friends and family, that's all they saw, but we didn't care then.... but I stupidly started to care, and even had a suicide attempt... out of sheer grief, yeah, but maybe even more because I started to believe what this tiny backwater part of the world says is real, instead of the reality she snd I lived.

And after suffering another let down from someone I thought I could really trust I was at a low point again until I loaded up HP this afternoon and saw the glory of the moon, and oh-so much more reflecting back onto my face so spt that the poem was even named, "Insane" and I got stuck at the end until of all things a quote from Bruce Lee fell down upon me, "It's like a finger pointing away to the moon... don't concentrate on the finger or you will miss all that celestial glory". 

So I begsn to stop to focus on my anger at the invisibility of The People, or of Iy&#233;ya, and not just for the space of reading a single poem, but rather I mean I stopped in life in *general*, the poem is so much more than the last 5 lines, with the rest of it, even being insane is every wonderful place to be, and somehow brother your words just made me stop being angry... I couldn't feel anger right now no matter how hard I tried, and I don't even understand why. And if y'all got this far you're a better man than I...

Tomorrow soon as I wake I'll SCREAM for I've no one to bother and my dog dosen't mind, I'll yell out loud as I can because that part's essential both to get the juices flowing and to grab your own attention so you don't just yell it, you *live* it, "ANPETU KIN LE LILA WASTE KTE", that is, "TODAY WILL BE A GOOD DAY"; both my late wives made the same joke, that that was their Indian cup of coffee, bit it really does work, it was something The People did I'd bet for centuries before our modern headset gurus' "name it and claim it", or "fake it 'til you make it" teachings, and plus it is The Great Mystery, Creator, to Whom we shout out, "ANPETU KIN LE LILA WASTE KTE". It's strange how a habit done for years can be so quickly forgotten... and how your poem Edmund, which was just general enough yet also just specific enough that I'd swear it could be about this last year of my life, can make an old habit a new habit, and turn so much anger falling like daggers to the Earth each into butterflies, each more pretty and colourful than the last.

Sorry for my narcissistic wayyyy&#253;yyy too long comment that rambles so far off any sort of connection to your words at times... maybe for the *entire* time even... I'm pretty sure it went fairly far afar in any case, it's just... it's like the English language sometimes fails, that the words don't exist to convey how your poem just kicked me hard in the ass, it woke up in the best way, in a "ANPETU KIN LE LILA WASTE KTE"-kinda way, and it grabbed my heart, maybe my spirit as well, and that leaked into my hands, my fingers, and I began typing this fast as I could, my fingers *still* trying to keep up with feelings and thoughts, and whatever the spirit's equivalent of feelings and thoughts is, another word missing from English.

This likely would have been better placed in my, "The Attist's Way" journal, but I suppose even too much feedback, INCREDIBLY narcissistic feedback (I know it is, as I know this comment is so far beyond moderate that the English language also fails to be able to describe the level of the self-centered bubble Im living in that my comment reflects, bit I'm praying that this is some sorta situational narcissism that will go away, that I'm mourning a lot of losses, and in a weird way the ones who have died are easier to come to terms with than those that are alive, but forever out of view now. 

I don't want forever after to be this weirdo lurking HelloPoetry, one of those readers that just have to nskd everything zboutvyhem, like I'm the very center of the universe, that I cannot resist just shoehorning every word of a poem to my own circumstances, even my own very existence. Snd yet, I read, "Insane" again, and it just fits. 

I want to end my narcissistic display on something other than dismay if even a single person ever should read this obvious cry for attention, I freely admit it is, with something that still makes me laugh even though grief is still heavy, and with reading your poem here (and if you're no longer with me here that's more than okay, this ridiculously long comment, it's gotta be into essay territory by now, would test even the strongest of patience Edmund, the patience of a saint) every word of your poem seems extremely essential... 

AND I finally don't feel selfish sharing that, yeah, the grief I'm feeling is crushing sometimes still, but I'm holding on much better than I was, much, much better than before I read your poem. No more looking for a doctor who does assisted-euthaniasia for me, what a cop out to the promise I made her just because someone else might pull the trigger, plus I make someone se my murderer. Fuck that dhit, I just need to hold on because time healing all wounds, that's no cliche, that's truth.

So sonethi g that makes me lie even through tears, on this very night one year ago Amber got her last name she received on Earth, Iy&#233;ya, at a huge party when almost like something scriptural she arrived back home again after being gone 11 years (having run away at 14 and living that tough life on the streets since then), when almost everyone, but three of her aunties (not aunties the way we use that word... it's complicated).

She was sitting at a table in the church hall, kinda holding court as thst was the best way for everyone to be able to welcome her home one by one. I wasn't there becsuse