I like being busy There's no surprise in that, It's the only way to survive and make the voices quiet that argue in my head. I like being busy It's the only way I've known, To burry down those feelings That keep on surfacing on their own. I like being busy I enjoy being burnt out Because that's how I muffle the agony from the bleeding cut. I don't want a moment of silence Because that's when The voices in my head are The loudest. They Mourne, they agonize, they miss, They sympathize. And then all I have is this burning feeling which is The darkest.
It’s my night to meet with Liz To tell her “bout my private biz She mulls it over then tells me how it really is You see it’s her job To listen to me cry and sob Imagine that… She gets paid the listen to me
Most therapists say:
“Having a little anxiety attack? "How about some nice Prozac” Or Can’t sleep, feeling lost and alone? “How about some nice Trazodone” Or “Manic Depressive? Feel like a ***? How about some nice Lithium”
Not Liz… She gives appropriate drugs Better yet she gives big hugs Encourages me my thoughts to share Teaches me to live again if I dare To break free from loss and pain Knowing from the truth I might gain
More free time For both of us
On Wednesdays at six
Dedicated to Liz My therapist for over 15 years. She passed January 9th 2018 Original 12/10/04
Anguish is me. Suffering is my blood. Pain is my heart. Despair is my brain. Numb is my touch. Gone is my soul. All I see is meaningless. All I know is nothing. My thoughts are like clouds showering acid, filling the growing rivers of depression. Sprouting more and more trees of anxiety. Sending bile snowballs cascading down mountains of doubt. Confusion festering, enough to black out the sun of belief. Traumatic obsession blinding my reason. Uncertainty fueling my unrealistically present pulse. The Reaper is hiding just out sight. A carrior-eater perched upon my brow. Grief and misery controlling my destiny. No distraction will conquor this day. Nor the days to come. I will function - but only enough to exist. My purpose is naught. My intentions selfish. Empathy was not made for me. I am in a world with no one else, yet they can see me. This world is quiet. This world is somber and yet more inviting. I've shattered the looking glass.
My mother taught me neglect And my father taught me fear, It's not something you can just "forget", The source of my paim seems clear; It tastes like love but it is not , I am one who has forgot, To know what home is like and can be called, It feels so real but sadly-it's false.