A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow. - Charlotte Bronte


3 nominations

Recovery? I don’t recognise this sensation, this neutral lack of despair, No aching desolate feeling, no desire to tear out my hair. No gnawing anxious depression, no urge to slash at my skin, I search the house for my demons, but the bastards don’t seem to be in. It could be the medication, lulling my mind with false hope, It could be divine intervention, cleansed by my Pope on a rope. I will try to endure my new state, my new found ease of existence, I will try to be “normal” and peaceful; this mirth will meet no resistance. But I know the black dogs will return, I know I will soon hear their bark, And when the dark demons come home, they’ll torment me and leave a new mark So till battle commences once more , Ill make the most, of this brief interlude, I’ll shrug off the impending relapse, bite my tongue and stop being rude. But what if my Demons are dead? Gone, forever, buried, extinct. What will I do with my time? Forced to live and to love and to think? Thirty years I’ve been held by this beast, I know no life without chains I’ve prayed for my early release, but liberty will bring its own pains, I’m afraid of my own free will, and I’m anxious and ready to break Maybe this time its for real, and maybe this time I’ll awake! The Status Quo is preserved! I’m still chained and trapped in my pit, The false dawn has passed and subsided, I’m down and I’m feeling like shit! My Demons all returned yesterday, with tortures and pain from their travels, They spit and poke and shit and piss as my whole world caves in and unravels. At least I had a glimmer of hope, a slight chance of mental discovery But the truth is clear, the damage is done, this man has no hope of recovery!

© Absinthe Friend


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