My asylum

How did I come to this,
My life lived in excess,
My mind a fragile tool ripped and torn apart,
Living in this semi conscious world of slumber,
A drug induced stupor of the clinically insane, Doctors hang on my every word,
Dissecting every syllable for answers to my decease,
I look from the single window of my cell,
Down to the yard below,
Others like me shuffle in zombie states, Shepherded like sheep,
An institutionalised stench hangs stale and stagnant on the air, In an atmosphere of screams and moans,
The hum of incomprehensible babble sub sonic and intense, Jingling keys a noise we all fear,
Paranoia stalks my nights in the darkness of solitude,
My eclectic mind grasping random thoughts,
In no discernable order to understand,
Other than to me and myself,
To us it makes perfect sense,
The soft padded walls of this room puff silently, Cushioning the blows I exact,
Stark and screaming white in the early morning sun, Lungs longing to fill with fresh air,
Skin yearns for the feel of sunlight upon it,
To be caressed by summer breeze,
The more normal I try to act,
The more drugs are forced upon me,
Crucified by the inhibitions of my own mind, Wanting to escape this living hell,
Wandering and drooling through self imposed purgatory, Leaving me only to ask,
Is it me who is insane,
Or them.

This was written in one of my high booze periods, still on the rocky road to rock bottom. I was working at a hotel, I was mostly alone when not working, interspersed with fleeting female company. It was a hard time for me, too much time to think. I always knew I had a mental issue, but never knew the myriad of different illnesses or levels of depression, I was never depressed during these years, I was just so fucking angry all the time, or so I thought. I lived in fear of being sectioned due to mental ill health, my father had said to me during one of my emotional breakdowns during my early teens, “if you dont pull yourself together, you will end up in a nut house”, he has a lovely turn of phrase, and so tolerant.

This was the though that haunted me through out my teens and twenty’s, became more real to me by 2001 and onwards. Now I am not saying that during my rock bottom of 2013-15 ish, that being sectioned was not what I required, I was manic, and I actually did bark at the postman on a couple of occasions to try to lift my gloom.

The poem depicts my view of being shut away to heal, away from the ‘normal’ people, those who function correctly. I knew the madness was coming, during my career it worked in my favour, never being the tallest or strongest, but my bark was ferocious, powered by my insanity’s. I played on the fact everyone thought I was a bit psycho, and when the vien in my forehead began to flush deep pink through to pulsating scarlet, those who knew me would retreat. When the dark mists filled my eyes, I know to hide myself away, the madness is in the driving seat, and I am just a passenger.


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