The first thing I see
when I pull out the top drawer
was the diagnosis. Meds, there you go
it pretty much said that.
I wondered about all the
creative people doing
some remarkable things,
creating and being alive.
Except they all one day
killed themselves.
Van Gogh stood in
the overgrown field before
he shot himself.
Sylvia Plath knelt down
and stuck her head in the oven.
Virginia Woolf grazed the smooth
peebles, thinking about what
she would write about those peebles,
Only to shove them in
her pockets and drown in the Ouse river.
Nearly everyday, I tell myself
I want to be a writer, or an artist-
Both, actually. That’s all I ever
wanted to be, but the fear of
spiraling, and becoming them
Is deeply disturbing.
Yet, I craved for this life,
To paint, and create stories
with a dash of madness
They all did likewise.
