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manic depression

A bitter taste lingers in my mouth,

The taste of vile repulsion,

Years of shame, self-hatred,

Built on acts so irresponsible,

So impulsive, reckless,

No regard for any person

though each one is irrespective

in the throes of manic self-absorption.

It is there, like Midas’ gold,

Glinting in seduction,

Reaching out to grasp

my materialistically mesmerised

collapse of teetering sanity.

My only limitation being

The ability to limit

my recklessness,

To abandon the wisdom

 of abstention.

The creditors’ letters sit in a pile,

Like teachers waiting to scold

And perhaps to chastise,

with a whack of the punitive cane.

Every word burns a scar

Into my defeated, guilty self,

Etched upon my self esteem

Like a deep, raw, acrid wound.

And yet again,

My soul mourns its own stupidity.

© Sarah Louise Drury 2019

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Written during a lengthy hospital admission with mania…

Drug Trolley

Hail! O righteous vessel,
Bearer of great gifts to
Those with faith in
This Messiah of psychiatry.

Wondrous drugs
Of plentious magnitude,
Neurological, psychological
Scrumptious liquorice allsorts.

Plastering, sanding, glossing
Over crumbling foundations,
Psychological invalidity,
Circuitry overload.

Come now,
swallow those meds,
They’ll send away the voices,
Ease away the pain.

You know you have to cooperate
For we have needles
Longer than your arm,
Must have complete submission.

Glazed and dazed,
The damaged and cracked,
Assert the tablet hierarchy,
‘Only two tonight dear’
‘I take fifty a day you know’.

The climax,
Blessed consumption of the
sacred pills and holy water
Modern deistic ceremony
After the manner of Sigmund Freud.

As the hoardes disperse to
Separate dimensions of space,
Time and delusion;
Broken, shattered fragments
Of a once-whole mirror,

They praise their holy trinity,
In the name of the
Trolley, drug and Holy Nurse.

Amen.

Oh to reach beyond the veil
Of death,
It’s frozen, deadly shiver grasp,
Of ice-cold, gripping, snatching,
Vicious creeping
Snuffing out life’s lamp
Like Florence nightingale becoming blackness.
Oh to dance with death
To raise unholy mayhem
Drag the sleeping from
Their icy duvets of
Sweet dead unconscious,
Frolic, merrisome, and raise a cup
My friend to drunkeness
In death inebriated.
Oh to take death by the hand
Of love
Hot blood pumps
Passion, yearning,
Melting frozen deadness
Rivulets of new sprung life
Reanimated
ghost of
Love pained longing.

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