a hundred days of happiness: day 17 – poetry.

call me a doctor. 

long days and they all slip away
as time waves her slender fingers through
the slips of fabric separating
reality from dreams
we clung on.

whoever said it doesn’t end with hope
is a liar.
because the hope is that it will end
and the fear
is that it won’t.

i’m afraid that this time
i’m close to losing myself
and if i jump
i may never resurface.

they brought me to the doctors
– no longer an idle threat
stuffed full with words that mean nothing
and sludge streaming through my veins.

i cannot write.
there is nothing left to write
because the blank tastes empty
and time is fleeing
in a mess of what i can only assume
is normalcy.

i am burning.
a dying ray of poor
“oh dear” they chatter
and i hear the mania
i hear the whispers
i hear it all

and whoever said it doesn’t end with hope is
a fucking liar
because it does end with hope.
and fear is the idea that it won’t.

and i run tripping over myself
to get the out of the darkness
but even the sun is malevolent
because i am the maniac;
breaking my own heart

and it does end.
in smoke and mirrors and cigarette burns
and ashes
blossoming into a hundred days of fucking happiness.

 

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