The Door

When my life

is just

doing time.

When my joy and laughter

are just

pretending.

 

When my days stretch into

endless

repetition

without expectation, anticipation or

perspective.

When I watch others live

their life,

whilst my life

just

passes by…

 

Then rests only

dread…

Life in the prison of my

mind,

dark, with boarded windows

and one door.

 

Now the question:

Do I stay…

or leave?

 

 

 

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Alien

People ask why I speak

in broken sentences,

incoherent,

fragmented,

then

sometimes crystal clear.

 

My words are

a product

of

a mind under stress.

Frantic searching,

communication,

connection,

the only way I can.

 

Not otherwise

specified,

never fitting,

unbelonging…

 

A fearful hand

reaching out.

 

Be careful with your comments,

I sponge them up

and spew

them back into the world.

 

They become

what I write:

Tattered words,

by an alien

consuming

all it gets.

The Precipice

I have stood on the precipice

of the rest of my life,

for a while now.

With my toes over the edge,

balancing,

uncertain,

afraid to plunge into the abyss.

 

Frozen,

eyes shut.

Unable to look to the future

beckoning

in sunlit beauty across

the divide.

 

Calling gently,

encouraging me to trust,

to leap

and set my mind to joy…

 

but I cannot…

paralysed…

 

Behind closed lids

warm tears well and slip

saltily

down my cheeks.

 

Why?

 

Silence.

 

Why…

do I dare not live?