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chrissy who Nov 2012
She struts through her town
Chin up
Hair down.
Trying to hide
Her skinned knees.
She doesn’t want the world to see
The only evidence she bears
Of when she finally fell.
Tripped, stumbled, whatever you want to call it.
She could hold herself up no more.
Gravity overcame her
Truth overcame her
Life overcame her.
Her back bent
Her knees buckled
She tried to scream
But no sound came out.
Her one moment of weakness
Left her with scars
Unseen
And ****** knees.
How do you come back from a fall like that?
She built herself up for years
Like a mountain ever growing,
A trophy never rusting.
She shined her shoes,
She brushed her hair
She straightened her blouse
Every day
Trying with all her might
To maintain her image
Of perfection.
She should’ve realized sooner
No one is perfect.
Not a one of us
Not Ghandi
Not Martin Luther King
Not Eleanor Roosevelt
Not even Dr. Suess.
They weren’t perfect
So why was she?
Who is she, that gets to achieve the dream
That the majority of people are treading water just to get a glance of?
A better question would be
Why did she get to do such a good job
Of hiding her imperfection.
She walked everywhere with a bottle inside
Holding everything in
Nice and tucked away
Like a child at bedtime
Hidden
Safe and snug
Where no one could see it.
She pulled it out only in the wee hours of the morning
While sitting by herself
At the top of her mountain
Where she sat
And wept
Silently.
When the rays of dawn would peep over the distant horizon,
She would wrap the vial up
And swallow it again
Down into the depths of her soul
To remain hidden
To keep her secrets safe
To keep herself upright and a-okay in everyone else’s sight.
This went on
And on
And on.
Until one night
When the moon shone bright
And the stars and constellations shone around her head.
She went to examine the newly expanded contents of her secret container
When she realized the stars weren’t shining solely on her soft
Perfectly parted hair.
Someone else was there with her
But it was too late to put the ampoule away
It was already out, see
And in plain sight.
She fumbled,
Caught off guard, she dropped her flask.
She jumped to catch it but it was already rolling
She chased it.
Down the mountain they went
A bottle
And a girl
Moving in tandem
One no faster then the other.
She tried to slow herself down as they approached the base
But it was too late
The momentum was too great
She tumbled headfirst
Her knees hit the ground
At this speed
Grass feels like concrete.
Green stains on her elbows,
Blood on her knees.
Water marks down her cheeks.
The higher you build yourself up
The longer you have to fall
As she discovered the night the constellations revealed her façade to another.
No one’s perfect
No matter what they seem
You never know
Who, at nightfall, screams.
This young girl learned her lesson
It’s better not to hide
And now she struts around
Showing skinned knees
With pride.
Eileen Prunster Oct 2012
bitterness
fills her mouth
a paralizing numbness
courses through her veins
as if
shes bitten
a suicide ampoule
d w Stojek Jul 2018
how long then to Bedlam?                            
                       why it’s but a Browning and a stave,                                              
                                                       but for you dear.                      

               how long then to Bedlam?                                    
                        a whisper’s blink and a cartridge of lily,            
                                                        but for you dear.
                      
                how long then to Bedlam?    
                         a bit of this ampoule          
                                                        and it’s here. it’s here.
Freedom from onset of pervasive gloom
(attendant with profusely perspiring palms,
hut tree men duh us aggravation), would be
a dog send to this melon collie bow wow
wing **** sapien aging baby boomer.

I already attend weekly counseling (no
weeknd) in tandem with experiencing
alleviation linkedin to severe anxiety,
depression, obsessive compulsive disorder.

Courtesy of father's litte helpers (Buspirone
Hydrochloride Tablets 15 mg twice daily,
Clonazepam 0.5mg tablet once daily,
Clomipramine 50 mg once daily, Fluoxetine

HCL 20 mg once daily, and Fluoxetine HCL
40 mg twice daily), prescription medications
considerably diminish disabling severity to
function, which afflicted yours truly soon
after being borne circa January thirteenth mcmlix.

Beset with psychological distress manifested
by physiological symptoms nsync with Inxs
adrenaline triggering heart palpitations, irritable
bowel syndrome, nausea, and vertigo said
unrelenting panic attacks considerably less

immobilizing prior to readily assenting to rely
on synthesized biochemical pharmacologically
manufactured as the next best option verses,
(no gallows humor pun intended) "magic bullet"
triggered by presed firearm.

Despite medicare coverage to acquire manufactured
selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, as a benefit
long since being deemed eligible to receive social
security disability, every now and again mine
mental health state pitched into abysmal despair,
an emotional nadir fraught with greater predilection
to inflict permanent self-harm possibly...premature demise.

Ah...without cloud crowdsourcing doubt, this mortal
man would hanker to plead within his genuine schizoid
personality disordered body to become free and clear
of life figuratively weighed down with bajillion pound
millstone gravely dark shadows synonymous with edge

of night prevalent with outer limits of twilight zone.
While awaiting (with increasing anticipation), which
salvation I can never ketchup with will find me
steadfastly, (albeit grudgingly) popping pills.

Plus, this holistic hombre resorts to transcendental
medication and physical exercise incorporating two
(one for each hand) dumbbells.

Meantime...an effort to seek succor availed sought out
by The Wizard of Ozzy Osbourne (waiver place he lives).
Hmmm most certain, he would be most accessible
upon a Black Sabbath.

If not him...this schlepper will trod along the boulevard
of broken dreams, yes - most definitely on a greenday.

Ever the cautious optimist, aye hopefully stumble across
an antiquated lantern pleasantly surprised when (after
carefully dusting off accumulated detritus), a garden
variety genii unexpectedly appears.

She/he, (perhaps after transgender reassignment
originally a him/her), would bewitch and spellbind
me after asking "wiccan I do for you," and deliver
immediate coveted ampoule, essentially a placebo.

Peace at last, plus long and fostered relief from
agonizing mental torture.
    
Without doubt, a greater probable chance more
favorable for this luckless male to win lottery (even
just a paltry million dollars), despite steep odds,
as opposed feeling akin to Atlas bearing weight
of world wide web!

Please feel free to toss pennies, nickels, dimes...
into virtual Fountain Head.

— The End —