Under sheets

All the clutter in my head
noiseless sound and day old bread
can’t get up no sight or ground
my feet touching skyward bound
I am falling up not down
my words seem to make it loud
mouth is shut-they still persists
these words all out of context.
All this clutter in my head
I’d need three of me to send
just enough to breathe again
get these thoughts out of my bed.

The truth about recovery

Guess I’m still sick
presenting well my shtick
a coping skill near heaven sent
leaves me dissociated and bent
forgetting what my true feeling is.

Guess I’m still sick
when a child’s laughter turns into
cries for help
you hear children playing
I hear children being tortured and killed.

Guess I’m still sick
when visions of violence
never leave my head
is it still intrusive if these thoughts
stay ever present?

Guess I’m still sick
so broken I missed
the signs and symptoms of
unreal bliss
hoping to God I don’t lose my shit
or at least I would if I could think of it
dissociation is fun
until you realize this
you haven’t been living for too damn long.