I could write a poem About self-love and recovery The rediscovery of happiness Pulling something lovely from the poverty Of picked-apart people.
Piecing themselves together Bit by bit Needle and thread ready Stitch by stitch But they don't fit Into the people they used to be The lives they used to lead
Every segment fragmented Broken down into constituent elements Never to be reassembled Quite the same
And no that does not make me insane I'm just a little different is all Take me off the shelves Product recall Just catch me as I fall From the pedestal you placed me on
I am not wrong Not broken Just faulty sell me for forty Percent less than retail price I'm still alive
You see it doesn't make you any less If you can't fit into the same old dress The same old mould You're solid gold A little more, a little less, You're worth millions.
This poem, as with most of my poems, is designed to be read aloud (spoken word/slam poetry) - you'll just have to imagine it being read in my dulcet tones, me of course being a stranger from the Internet. I began this poem in a very pessimistic place, in fact in a physical place that was a psychiatric unit (more of that to come), but it wasn't until a few months after my discharge that I returned to this poem and gave it the more optimistic ending it now bears.