Wretched and Broken

It was a night of spring,
Not long gone by,
A night of warmth
For those not I.

An eve' of rain
So soft and light.
Gently it fell
With no stormy might.

It was on this night,
My fingers tangled in my hair,
That I was lying on the floor,
Scarcely gasping air.

Twisted like a fetus
With my chest upon my knees,
Weeping aloud at midnight,
Though no one could hear my pleas.

It was a female voice
That did cause me to cry,
To hide my head inside my hands,
To beg the reason why.

By the gentle rain
I felt my mind slip away
But with storm-fed fury,
And I knew the pain...

The mercilessless of a rain-spattered window pane,
A pane of rain,
The reign of pain,
Of pain insane!

I dreamed of dreams
That could not be realized.
I thought of thoughts
That could not be said.

I want to walk a world
Where time has no meaning
And pain has no purchase,
But the dogs have been loosed.

Snarling and stenching!
Quivering and dripping!
Clawing and howling!
Flies all around!

What can be so wrong with me?
Scared of life!
Fearful of touch!
Frightened by interaction!

Sickened by shredded nerves!
Why am I this way?
Will I make it out this time?
I wonder will there be an end to this.

Somebody please help me!
Please help me!
Help me!
Help me.

---

Originally written:    June 12, 2004
Put online:    June 27, 2004
Discussion:    The mind of an artist can be a very complex place. The events chronicled in this poem took place on Monday, June 7, 2004. I was not at all in a good place. It was on that night that, for whatever reason, I seemed to be suffering from an acute bout of psychosis. Specifically, I believe I have a bit of social anxiety disorder. This flared up that night. Granted, there is always a pervasive, chronic, low-level discomfort in my life, but things were acutely uncomfortable that evening. Mind you, this condition is self-diagnosed, but it is something I believe I have. Most of the time this isn't an issue because I am rarely interested in engaging in any social sort of activities. Occasionally, however, as was the case on that particular night, I do wish to partake, or I do think about partaking. Thus the issues. Now, this also brings me back to the double-edged sword that is the pained existence of my creativity. I should probably seek professional help and diagnosis/treatment. However, if this was the case and I was drugged up, "Wretched and Broken" more than likely would not have been written, in my opinion. This personal dilemma added to the torment of that evening. Should I seek near-future professional counseling or not? If I did and further sought some kind of psychoactive assistance, what would this do to my writing? I'm sure Paxil would enjoy entwining its slimy little tentacles in and around my sulci, but what would this do to my creativity? Would I even still be able to write if I were all drugged up, or would narcotics dull that part of my mind as well? I'm guessing such would be the case, which is why I believe so many artists/creative persons are a little..."off." There were all kinds of things flashing through my mind, and, frankly, some of it scared me. Sometimes it is very, very difficult to pull myself through these states of mind, and this madness was "zoomorphized" in (embodied by) the dogs in the preceding poem. Add to this the fact that I am fiercely independent, probably to a fault, and one has the recipe for the above work. This poem happens to be incredibly personal, perhaps even more personal than normal if not even more deeply personal than any other single piece that I have written to date. The discussion given here is rather general. Deeper discussions and more specific meanings will not be appearing anywhere on my website and will instead be residing solely in my head and in a non-posted text file on my hard drive. In all, writing this poem proved to be a very cathartic experience with the difficulties of that week and its episodes spilling upon the canary legal pad page in the strange, little black squiggles of my handwriting. This was, again, perhaps even more cathartic than usual. I have two final miscellaneous items that I would like to bring forth before wrapping up this discussion. The very beautiful female voice that so agonized me on that Monday night belonged to Michelle Loose, the lead singer of Arise From Thorns (which was the CD that I was listening to at that time). And finally, the title of this poem was taken from a line in My Dying Bride's "The Wreckage of My Flesh."


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