[Here’s where I’d tell you about the violent panic attack I had last night, how I couldn’t make it stop and how I woke up feeling guilty and ashamed of myself for losing so much control. Today, I don’t feel like I can access the parts of my brain that allow me to write how I normally do. I barely feel like I can access my brain at all. I told myself I was gonna refrain from posting my creative projects here as much as possible, but they sneak in when my wiring gets loose or something. This one’s fairly spontaneous and minimally edited. I’m really fucking sad, y’know?]
In Thrace, the man who went to hell
Was shredded at the joints.
These women wanted his notes
Is that right?
Plucked clean, already clean from birth
And wasn’t he beautiful?
He pled, didn’t he
For the snakebit heel of his wife
That went first
Chaffs tangled underneath her mortal slump
Is that right?
Each folding nexus, just for her that shouldn’t be there
The undamned eye sees a reverence if at all
I see gravity, I don’t know how else
Is that it?
When you return from me
You’ll notice the lack of gods, I think,
And wonder, why were you even there,
Eyes to the roof of the sky, shedding shoulders at the cuff
Who needs them?
Euridice was the coin on his tongue to trade for sticks
The more beautiful I am, the freer my passage
But I won’t be beautiful
I don’t see the need
Notes plucked clean slur into the mud
Then what have we?
Redemption, even mine, is mine to waste
The tatter of a misremembered myth
Is mine to screw into the earth
I’m a liar too, you know
I’m above and below you too, you know
In all ways
And always a hard C at the very end
The limbless man awaiting hell, he says to me aloud:
Well then, good luck
Tagged: bipolar disorder, creative writing, depression, guilt, panic attack, poetry, sadness