Notes from the Asylum

Such words I have, such words!

And chosen with care, by greasy hands

Like the cool gel of the ultrasound.

 

There is no salve for this slow burn-

But time, that so-called healer

And you betcha that bastard will tarry.

*********************************************

A dry-eyed psychosis:

at least it’s original.

If Hope is the thing with feathers,

that’s one hell of a four a.m.

wake-up call.

**********************************************

I am at home with charcoal

When your pencil smudges

into our grey areas.

But remember- I am ravenous

And I too, leave my mark.

**********************************************

“You have so much potential.”

A whisper in the ear, a wandering hand

“You have so much potential”

A dead goldfish in a Phillip Morris coffin.

“You have so much potential.”

A hairbrush, a sedative,

and it’s all quiet on the Western Ward.

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