What becomes of the broken minded?
Shiny celebs stalk in the ad break,
Taking a one-minute pause from the vanity express
they smiley-ly tell me to talk, talk and talk.
‘We are here for you!’
Internal debate to ask for help angst-ed for days.
And when I stole a moment to call the hamstrung Mental Health service.
No one at home, but a smooth-toned answerphone,
And a repeating symphony of Elgar.
They rang back a week later…
He stopped me answering.
The incessant twat in my ear.
Who chides away.
‘You! Ha! You don’t deserve…Well…anything!’
You know him.
The one who owns the huge black dog,
Never, ever get a word in.
Knows me better than myself.
Ace director of those bastard mind spiders,
Who constantly cobweb my thoughts,
Keep me awake.
Sweating and screaming nightly
At subconscious repeats of a lifetime of cockups,
Break-ups and failures, in glorious technicolour.
Played out on the screen of my wardrobe mirror.
Tonight’s main feature…
When I tried escaping the darkest of days…
Stool-slipped and broke the bathroom door.
High Plains Drifter rope burn on me neck.
The earhole twat had a field day with that.
Pity I could not make that Benefit medical,
Brain was ablaze that day.
Piling mail from the Social shouts daily on the mat.
Twenty texts from the Landlord…
Not easy when you have no will
Not easy when I have no will to walk.
No will to move,
Just…Hide in bed.
The bed where there is no peace,
The bed where there is vexed sleep,
Even with the max prescribed lullaby hit.
Which turns me into a next day Zombied git.
Tried some weed for a miniscule break,
A mate bought some ecstasy round to take.
Even sniffed a line of coke….
But sneezed and blew it, what a joke.
Another day in Shitville.
Some tosser on the TV talking about Brexit,
Ten tablets left, not enough for an exit.
Try to renew online with yet another new GP.
Got to go in as he does not know me.
Need at least twenty to make sure…
Pencilled in Thursday, my birthday, next week.
Head-splitting raps on the door.
Jump behind the sofa, head to the floor.
Chance a furtive letterbox peek.
Given away by its rusty squeak.
It’s only Psycho-Nurse Simon with me Mam.
Must put my other face on, best I can.
‘Why don’t you answer yer soddin’ phone?’
‘Hello Mam, It’s just….I erm…’
‘Look at the state of yer. Have you been taking yer meds?’
‘Yeh…but I…I’ve not been too good.’
‘Don’t worry Lad, it’s OK. We’re both here to help.’
He’s back, in me ear again.
‘We don’t need any help. Just scam them extra tabs.
After next week you will not be missed…
Tell ‘em to do one! Go on!’
‘For God’s sake will you just shut the fook up!’
‘Seth, what’s wrong lad…’
‘Sorry. No Mam. I didn’t mean. Not you. Not Simon.
It’s him…Please don’t leave me alone with…’
Write poems of all genres, particularly narrative writes about people, life events and the world we live in. Haikus and Tankas when I can. Like short stories too, a little drama and monologue works also in my stuff. Reside in the Dark Kingdom of Lancashire, England.