I feel it.
I feel the desperation, deep in the pit of my stomach.
I don’t know what I am so desperate for, or about –
all I know is I feel like I might burst
like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, about to do something stupid.
I guess you could say I feel reckless, like I might
pour vodka down my throat, or
overdose on pain pills, or
cut open my veins, or
explode in wild abandonment, because
I feel it coming.
I have become so good at
diagnosing myself, medicating myself, analysing myself.
I can describe just how I feel, and I can tell you what it means
but now I can’t tell you what it means anymore.
The music feels wrong. It feels too happy. Not desperate
I want to skip it so badly but I tell myself I must
listen to the whole album,
in full. Take it all in. Skipping is cheating.
I don’t know when I became so obsessive compulsive about music
it just happened.
Maybe it’s a way for me to retain order, when there is none
or feel like I am accomplishing something
when I finish a record.
Right now I just want to scream into the silence
but the music plays on
and I tell myself I must let it.
Perhaps that’s why I feel so desperate
so desperate to escape my self-imposed confines
imposed to confine me to a more orderly existence
that holds me in place.
It’s for the best, I know;
but it doesn’t stop me from feeling crazy
and scratching at the bars.
Vickye Fisher © May 2016. All Rights Reserved.