Posted by Mr. Scott on July 1, 2001, at 21:23:18
Most of my depressive poetry is about myself as I am deeply narcisistic.. This one however is not.. it's about a friend of mine who developed Bi-polar disorder several years ago. It's brutal, so don't read it if your not fully anesthetized on pills like I mostly am.
There aint a doctor in the city that can help this princey pretty.His face abound with bloat, mind drowning in the moat.
Hatred of the things we used to love, and lost in a sea of twisted shadowy facts, his protective barrier lost or cracked.
He may one day ride that train, to a place that’s free of pain, at least in theory.But on this grand summer day when the world cheered for hot dogs and plastic cups of beer he stayed within himself..Alone on a brown couch.
Half dulled and partially awake with shards of a broken life strewn like leaves in fall around him as he sat, contemplating the same old things the same old way one more time.Tense about those meaningless things, stuck in a place that hates…All alone.
Unable to appreciate for any length of time a fine slated table or even a success.
Only visions narrow and sorrowful where control is bought and sold like a commodity.Couldn’t you see beneath his skin and the layers of water and fat? Didn’t you see who he wanted to be…if only.
And of course there was the screaming and flailing of a small fury animal being slowly electrocuted in a bramble of hot wires. But nobody was there to hear it.Scott
poster:Mr. Scott
thread:6980
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/social/20010628/msgs/6980.html