This story is only partly true so you will have to imagine the rest.
The re-teller never existed. To you she might seem real…
Or was it all a test?
No, no, I’m quite sure that the narrative is truer than the actual story
And the voice sounds realistic but also too arrogant.
(Has she ever muttered “sorry”?)
To anyone reading this – please don’t jump to conclusions harshly.
If you say that I’m to blame, I will accept it.
At least, partly.
So enjoy the show and take the orchestra home if you can’t sit through.
Because the drums and the violins might hit some chords
Resonating with you,
Too.
***
My head has been bed bound for a decade and counting.
Nothing grows in a ceaseless fire,
It’s a storm of blips. It’s a form of drowning.
The clouds move unsurely through the stickiest nectar.
I imagine this is what death feels like
Because anxiety is my faithful specter.
My limbs are tranquil while the chest goes full Urie
And the focus is stolen from me,
The emptiness is filled with fury.
What about the jury?
Are they still out and about, ignoring the verdict they are going to serve me?
I look around. “In the time of need did they all desert me?”
Helplessness locks my senses, the room turns black. I bow to the unimaginable.
Not the first time someone called my pain unfashionable,
Even easily eradicable.
Yes, my head has been bed bound for a decade and counting.
And yes, I can take another day of drowning.
I can take another head recounting.
But please take away all the shouting.
You’re not understanding what you are doubting –
And I’m simply looking for mounting,
For someone who doesn’t suffocate by shrouding.
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 