Fucking gonna be late for work.
Who the fuck cares anyway.
I’ll drink some coffee to that.
I am Sam, Sam I am.
No, I’m not losing my mind.
It happened to me a few years ago.
And struggling without it in the world, I recognize,
It is a battle that never terminates.
There’s no beginning and no end to it,
Just me in my writing jail, expecting my Muse,
To generate back my writing urge.
And who are You to judge me for being incarcerated?
Your writing has nothing to do with mine,
And who is affording you the right to be my advisor and prosecutor?
At the same time you’re not practicing it quite correctly,
By giving your writings to the universe as it is,
The wrong, the immoral and not rephrased as well.
So, go away and leave me alone,
My conclusions and my fiction are entirely my own.
With nothing to give and all to take,
You probably have just plain misery when you wake up.
Pick out a path, don’t get me amiss,
Stay in the herd or leave me alone.
Lastly, I’ll kickoff with my brain clear.
My head is on the call, awaiting a launch into writer’s sphere.
Because there’s no one to understand this jail of mine,
I don’t have to pretend like others do,
My own statements split down the rampart,
While you sit and wait
The words to come forth on their own.
So be it, like it is implied to be.
That means to be free or watch the messy crowd.
The rumor of the herd is breaking me down.
I’d rather be Myself then be like You.
I’m not giving anyone my writing soul, and remember, I will never ever follow You.
I am Sam,
And later, when I finally walk out of this jail of mine,
I grant you the permission to scratch on my gravestone, over and over, repeatedly :
“But Sam was never the same again”.
I do not know if I can touch you
The way I want,
The way I feel.
I do not know if I could look into your eyes
Because I am afraid
That you be able to see all the secrets of my soul.
My wings are a little black, and
You’ll probably run away, I know.
I do not know if I can wake up next to you
And wish for another day,
I do not know if I am going the right way
And if I make a mistake now,
Trip over my own words and deeds
I will fall
And never get up again.
I do not know why you’re here and who brought you,
What was the idea,
What was the thought of bringing you to me.
I do not know whether to thank him
Or prepare another box
For storing the memories away.
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A writer adrift
A Writer Healing from Postpartum Bipolar Disorder (Bipolar, Peripartum Onset)
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