Imagery alone is not palette enough to describe the feeling.

But without paint to brush or chalk to smudge, it’s what we seek.

Clouds roll in like slickened driving wheels on freshly greased tracks

Gaining momentum, distended bellies threatening birth of something bleak.

A cluster of voices clamber and cackle for attention

Like crowds gathering before gallows, awaiting death,

Jostling and judging and goading into actions

That rip flesh apart, leave lungs gasping for breath.

Silences screams shrill, each one tearing and tricking

Into false beliefs and cruel untruths,

Propagating the propaganda of self doubt.

Silent replies fuelling these as proof.

The pressure builds, rattling like stove-top kettle.

The whistle chasing its tail within the skull,

Knuckles find home in depths of tender temples,

And on kind days, the whistle calms, the senses dull.

On brighter days, the sun is welcome,

Bathing the world in gentle light,

Peace descends like comfort blanket,

And for a moment, all feels right.

Living with the tick-tock of time bomb,

The chest is poised for fight in fear,

Shadows can swoop and shroud at any time,

Rationale and reason derail, decamp, disappear.

There is no seeking for understanding.

Wordless responses hidden in folds of fear, pockets of pain.

Doubting all becomes the ritual

Gas-lighting the self-hate campaign.


Like what you’re reading?


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