Monday, April 28, 2014


The list of poets who have committed suicide
Is anything but short. Something about that vision,
That sensitivity, that third eye always watching the world,
Seems to make us more susceptible to madness,
To the inability to take it anymore.

Yet, so many of us hesitate, when offered a tonic
A regulated way to take the edge off: pills, that horror,
That addiction that’s rumored to dull the senses and
Drain our creativity like hemorrhaging blood.  We’d rather
Feel sharp, bright pain than live in dull, functioning shadows.

I tried. I tried to be a chemical-free poet, tried to
Tackle the daylight without a helmet, tried to
See past the fog of fear without headlights, I tried
And I did not succeed. I sank at an alarming rate,
Too weak to tread water with my legs alone.

Anti-depressants have been the buoy that
Keep my head above water  while I exercise my legs,
Working every day to get stronger. I can’t see the shore. 
I can only take great gulps of fresh air and sing of hope,

Of the feeling of muscles growing in my legs.

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