Time is stagnant I have tried pushing all the buttons
It hasn't changed for all my efforts - this period tiresome
Gray skies Not a drop of rain Not a hint of the sun
This life is too overwhelming I'm ready for the next one
Exploring the psyche of a mind diseased by depression. The individual thinks he/she is inside a video game that isn't playing out to their liking and he/she wants it to end and retry with a spare "life"
The Scottish woman moaned about the medication being late and the Asian woman rocked back and forth on the armchair with a bone looking grip looped in her hair.
You were standing with me by the large window gazing out at the trees and fields covered in snow.
You touched my hand with yours and I sensed the roughness of the bandage around your wrist where you had cut it and few days before and the tubby nurse found you sitting on the floor watching the blood flow out and the nurse screamed at you something she wasn't meant to do.
"Wish I was out there" you said "lying there like some lone soldier deep in snow waiting for death and what a way to go."
The nurses half walked half dragged the screaming woman along the passageway of the locked ward.
He watched them, a cacophony of screams and shouts and banging of doors, then silence; that was more disturbing that silence, and picturing the patient on the bed strapped down, the rubber mouth piece between teeth, the injection to oblivion, the electrodes applied each side of the skull, the electric shock applied, the body in motion as the current rides.
He knows the score he's been there before, knows the strapping down, the rubber piece between teeth, the injection and the buzz along the nerves, ******* consciousness out of each pore and momentarily it seems you are no more.
"We are the witnesses to how alike all men bleed."* Man our easel, we stretch clean canvas over scarlet brushstrokes, We work stitchings like guitar strings, find a melody in the mending, hide scars like bass, in clean skin, and hide the pain from each ending. Their lungs sing.
An alto for death's row, its sound makes your heart slow. Let's see what you have inside, with open eyes, your mother cried, in toupe-walled rooms, we cut the cord, no savage mark by a doctor's sword.
Just silence and sadness, greyness and madness, long halls and dancers, small windows and glances.