Bye Jason

here is my mind,

in a nut shell,

sick as a man that don’t feel well.

lit up like a lantern, one that’s light is going

and one word, that’s the mind,

taken down by the ebbing, undertow

keep flowing

I stay afloat, with each lines i wrote,

on a pad to quote Nietzche that being sick aint easy

it takes some time to perfect, but sickness comes when you

let your body go, and let your mind take step.

but me, I know I got it, issues in my temple

but the mental president, the alarm clock resident

the sleepy  eyed  testament says i got one life to live

and me,  I wonder where it went.

where i flow, with my mental abyss

you might not understand reading this

that the target is painted on my back

and it can’t be missed,

fell to the ground, like a feather

this cold glow over head,

fell asleep, forgot to measure

what cost is ahead… the cost of sanity

is a cost I will pay.

I want my mind to erase itself

like its a bad hand dealt, you say that my idle hands

are wasted

that i can’t see the truth,

You want truth? im not an idiot OR a vagrant

I’m a wandering soul,

belonging far away from the planet.

Whered i wind up?  Pulling CSRS for Granite.

but man I’d chase away this pain  with a gin and tonic,

i would welcome your comments, but not on this,

cause my mind just up and vomits this stupid shit,

for you to slip on it.

But this is my mental,

this is my magazine,

this is my dream,

my underground scene

I’m the psychward celebrity, yeah they dealt with me,

used  to write poetry with Doug Holder,

but he never knew me

used to take his class,

in the mellow format,

to read every book you can, even if its crap.

That what he said to me

and I still look back and laugh at it.

Cause I write alot of poetry

and still don’t read, and probably should… books are good,

But I can’t read cause this kids got me doing Heath, and I’m sick of that shit.

reading a verse or two go get it from the internet.

cause you know me by know, i’ve been reading so loud

that you woke up from the chair that your sitting in now.

and i know you want me to tell you all of my problems,

your not a therapist… your the cause of em.

sick is the mind, call it what you wish.

call it mental illness, or another piece of shit.

cause i never caused this to happen, the mental swelling

that keeps me yelling obscenities in my head

yeah you laugh at em,  or react to em,

and hear nothing, but i still can,

each jagged thought that comes from my head

for the mental  is too much to bargain with

this the undertow, you the mental abyss.

I’d slit a wrist, but i’m not a bitch.

i’ll man the storm, I’ll handle it.

that’s what i do when my mind comes unglued,

i wish i could compute like a mental PC

and say a bad thought, then go ahead

delete it.

but i know mania is something that medicine deals with

Calling anyone in pain a goddamn derelict!

A lost cause with a Social Security check!

But me im a different case all together,

man the storm, make sense some where blue

life without happiness volumes one and two.

sense saves a life, chapter one through ten

lost my best friend over a stupid drawing,

I write Oddball Magazine!, yeah this is the editor,

i edit it and promote it, and write you all letters,

come and check out my staff,

do the math

theres no staff,

just an idiot with a dream

and no lungs to laugh.

and can’t go back now. this is my magazine

that your reading

cause i want to let you all know

if you feel like I’m feeling

then write something,

instead of wrist bleeding.

instead of breaking down at home…

write a poem,

by myself with people or not, i still feel alone

thats why i write, why do you do it?

got something to say go ahead and do it,

and here is the music,

and you are the melody,

i know its not just me. or maybe it is

so dont tell me you dig my shit,,

go ahead

and write your own, and maybe I’ll publish it.

you don’t know till you submit.

Jason

Insulin shock therapy is given in Lapinlahti H...
Image via Wikipedia
Advertisements

3 Comments

  1. The mind is mindful that what we think is neither who we are nor a catalogue of our complete character. Why not give equal weight to what we hear as the heart heralds hope in wistful whispers.

    My thought for today, titled…Son Light from HIS House:
    Demon displays can not bear the burden of beautiful words whittled wistfully.

    Jason, working at alliteration, comments welcome

    Love
    Dad

Leave a Reply