Only those familiar with the repercussions of mental illness will understand this, I am sure. It almost doesn't make sense to me. Will my mother always affect me this way?
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Like a ghost.
A dream almost remembered,
niggling at the edges of consciousness.
Like a word on the tip of the tongue.
A splinter festering in the finger.
Shadow, fear, always there.
Like an ancient worry stone,
turned over and over.
Rubbed gently over time.
Familiar, yet repugnant.
Run from it. Yesterday.
Ignore it. Today.
Pretend it doesn't exist. Now.
Bone deep surety, inevitability.
Resist, resist, resist.
Nothing is written in stone.
Will the reality of my mother ever leave me be?
Or will I wrestle with her every day for the rest of my life?
Weary.
Tired.
Done.
...
Faith.
Is God really good?
Ruthless trust.
Cling. Hope. Tenacious faith.
Please be real.
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I do not call this poetry. I don't know what I call this. Stream of consciousness, maybe? Incoherent babbling of a raving lunatic? Grieving of an abandoned child? All I know is that it helps to get it out of my head.
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2 comments:
Absolutely beautiful. And btw, I do call it poetry.
It resonates with me, friend. "He binds up the brokenhearted...."
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