Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Who’ll be there to pick me up when I fall,
This is a question that the anxious call,
When it all feels too much to bear,
When happiness only brings despair,
When the mind races and the heart beats panicked pain,
And the body is held a hostage by its very own brain,
There’s nobody to pick me up when I fall,
So, from under the weight of things, it will be me who’ll crawl,
But not until heartache runs its painful course,
And anxiety has drunk her fill, without remorse.
I work diligently to keep my mind clear and calm,
I create things with various art forms, I have many different hobbies,
However, these are rarely successful long-term distractions,
Frame of mind is everything, and I can feel my mind drifting,
Drifting from where I would like it to be,
Sometimes, inside of my head feels like I’m locked in a loud crowded room,
Inside I’m trying my best to focus, to communicate, or to escape,
Some days it feels impossible to create anything, because of the noise,
Other days it is easier, the volume is down, and my mind is inexplicably pliable,
They say, after every storm comes peace,
Therefore, after so much sound, there should be silence,
After most creative endeavours, comes such emptiness,
I pour myself into whatever I create, and I’m unsparing in the amount,
Time to hit the mute button for a while and let the white noise fade out.
I could literally rip the skin and flesh from my face right now,
I am not in my own mind, I am not even in my own postcode,
My self-hate is so powerful, so invincible,
The effort to hold it back is beyond comprehension,
I hate myself with so much vigor and venom tonight,
No rhyme, no reason, just self-disgust and anger,
I make no sense, I am bad company, I am not to be around,
I scratch as the fan passes, I clench until its return,
I want to be the kind me, but I am unable to connect,
I am rocking, thinking, hating, trying to exist.
Tonight I AM the monster of rumour.
A time comes when you know that you are barbed,
Self-protective and in need of personal shelter,
Right now, is one of those times,
I have virtual thorns on my skin and in my brain,
Time to stay away from my dear ones,
Time to stay away from NOT dear ones,
Time to be charged, and remain alone,
Recognizing and communicating mood with my closest,
That my nuclear level is at maximum,
It’s vital to all around,
Find the right music now,
Find the right mix to sooth now,
Find a way to dull the thorns now,
Find a way to ‘control’ now,
The poison has removed the pain of a life in thorns,
Until now, and until tomorrow.
I have an internal feeling, like a counting clock ticking away,
Creeping nearer, time is the predator, and I am its prey,
If there’s a good thing coming, it will be the first that I’ve seen,
Because misfortune and sorrow now live where I’ve been,
I feel out of control which I just cannot stand,
I feel my heart in my throat, and brain on remand,
Anxiety for my future remains powerfully crippling,
It toys with my brain poking, prodding and tickling,
Who is this hunter that stalks me these days,
As I grow greyer, fatter, sadder and more dismayed,
I once felt stronger, in command of my thoughts,
But anxiety has filled my mental account full of naughts,
A life full of death and mental illness, has my mind leaving me,
A watered-down version of the man I should be,
No self-esteem, and so much worry and woe,
That when I look in a mirror, I see a face I don’t know.
What happened to me, and where did I go,
That counting clock reminds me, we reap what we sow.
Blue, white, red, green,
Tibetan prayer flags dance in the wind,
Yellow, blue, white, red,
They bring some colour and calm to my head,
Green, yellow, blue, white,
Deep breaths will help me sleep tonight.
I sit here disgruntled this morning, without internet,
Trying to get my work done without the connectivity benefit,
It’s not like I want to work, but this is making it hard,
If I can’t get my work delivered, my reputation is marred,
This week a few electronic items have failed to work,
Plans have been ruined, money lost, I look like a jerk,
I’m fed up, I’M FED UP, even screaming it does nothing,
Nobody listens, nothing works out, I’ve got to do something,
To break this feeling, to get some success, a glimmer of hope,
Because with each passing day, it gets harder to cope.
Today I am an albatross soaring through the air,
Above an ocean of people flooded with despair,
Everyone seems lost and scrambling, searching for some meaning,
While I’m up here in the clouds, far from all their screaming,
There’s no need for air conditioning, with the ocean breeze upon my wings,
As I soar so high above reality, far from all the heated human things,
That made me want to kill myself and leave it all behind,
It is better to be an albatross, far away from humankind.
Sunday evening has arrived, rain lightly falls, and I find my mind adrift,
Thinking of places to soar to, and using my imagination to write,
‘Hmm, this may take a while today’ I say to myself,
My thoughts aren’t as pliable today as I would like them to be,
It is being inflexible, a cloudy numbness and racing of thoughts combine,
Creating a grey, washed out thought process, that isn’t producing,
So, I’ll sit with it a while and observe, I need to change my energy,
Perhaps a little music, Medwyn Goodall, the time of ‘new age’ isn’t over here,
Drifting keyboards, a constant drum, beautiful, slow and methodical,
A trilogy of albums begins, I lean back in my chair, I think and listen,
The sound is soft, medieval, Arthurian, and luxurious,
This is where my mind has been hanging out lately,
Escaping from a stressful reality, self-loathing and worry,
Lost in a pagan dream of early English folklore,
Pan flutes and a soft synthesized choir swell,
Yes, this feels ok, I won’t be crafting anything fancy tonight,
Just documenting my thoughts and actions, which is ok,
My racing thoughts remain viscous; however, I feel calmer,
Should I even attempt verse within prose?
I’m not really sure how that would transpose,
After the observational typing of thoughts,
Jumping straight into a lyrical fire of sorts,
Well, I’m doing it now and there’s no going back,
I’ll just have to keep typing, and try to keep it on track,
Medwyn’s music helps me with rhythm and rhyme,
Softly and slowly his drum is keeping time,
I should switch back to prose now and finish this ramble,
Frankly, this entire poem has been a bit of a gamble.
Just writing thoughts is also creation, and my mind breathes easier,
As Druid, Merlin, and Excalibur, Goodall’s Druid Trilogy, comes to an end,
My mind jumps back to 1990, I’m 16, ordering these cassettes from a catalogue,
That same year I found my first tarot deck, dressed in black for the first time,
And I found a me that I was comfortable inhabiting, I didn’t quite hate myself then,
My family were all living, it seemed peaceful, life was simple and uncomplicated,
My mother had just been diagnosed with an illness, in four years, she would be gone,
And after that, just like in Humpty Dumpty, all the Kings horses, and all the Kings men,
Couldn’t put things back together again.
Although this may not be very imaginative writing, typing it was personally instructive. The power of music, and searching for the right words, managed to dislodge some suppressed and kind of uncomfortable memories. The surprise for me was having control over closing that door of consciousness before the train of thought ran itself off the rails like usual. That control is quite an achievement for a Sunday evening for me, so, although not imaginative, I do feel better for writing it.
Thank you for reading,
Dan
x
When I close my eyes, there’s a place I go,
Far beyond the dreaming sea,
Where the calm still waters ebb and flow,
And ancient druids call to me.
There’s a great circle of sarsen stone,
Arranged to greet first solstice light,
Where ancient secrets of the earth are known,
And shared with followers draped in white.
In a lake of wonder a lady sleeps,
Clutching a sword upon her breast,
The water hides the tears she weeps,
Waiting for her King to begin his quest.
I open my eyes, and I’m back in my own skin,
I no longer feel the sickly weight of panic,
I’m calmed by my kingdom of ancients within,
And my thoughts are now less manic.
The mystery dreamland calls me now,
As I try to stop my eyes from closing,
I write this verse through furrowed brow,
Time to sleep and stop composing.
Dan Verkys 