“You can turn away”, he says
as he sets the bowl and scalpel
on the tray next to my bed.
I wince, obligingly
lower my head,
but as the blade digs in
I watch him work,
painstaking.
Extracting one shard
at a time from my arm:
pincering it out, spluttered with blood
catching a glimpse of the glint, like a flash,
before glass hits tin.

No tears then, only after,
when he stares and says:
“You won't do that in a hurry again.”

There's an itch in my brain,
            That comes time and time again.
It's like an inner plague in my mind,
     It only seems to get worse with time.
Emotions flare uncontrollably,
         I cannot keep them in me.
  There they are flaring,
        Always glaring.
  I can never be happy,
I go into a sadness or get angry.
       Sometimes it's big, sometimes it's small,
   Yet it's the same reaction to all.
I wish I can fix it and be happy,
           I wish I didn't get so angry.
Sometimes I don't think,
    Sometimes I can't see.
Sometimes I want to cry and ask for help,
         But then I'm reminded that I can't help myself.
Where is my mind?
  Why are people so blind?
Sometimes I want to die and leave,
             But no one sees.
  All the pressure always surrounds me,
          Pressure from everyone including my family.
I wish I can be free from this unending cycle,
                 Such a lonely cycle.
However I can't,
        No one sees who I am.
No one sees,
              No one sees me.

When The Great Bard wrote his epic plays
America was the new frontier
A widening world of wonder.
But now we look with eagle-eyed telescopes
Out into the depths of space
Beyond the beyond
Back through countless miles and aeons
To Thirteen point eight billion years ago
When our universe appeared.

Send your minds-eye through swirling sandstorm fogs,
Each grain a galaxy
Each galaxy a beach
Of stars.

Most stars are circled
By endless varieties
Of worlds.
There must be Earths out there,
Again too many to number
Making our own a single speck
In that endless night.

The saddest thing, of course,
Is that all these worlds are out of reach,
Unless we find a wormhole
Or that fiction “Star Trek” comes to pass.

Without some warp drive
We are marooned on this island
We call Earth.
Yet we can look
And think:
Imagine what it’s like out there
On sister Earths
In jungles,
Up mountains
And on sky-blue seas.

Paul Butters