Another poem
Thursday, 21 October 2010 02:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59For crazy people who have never heard voices
I have never heard a voice not coming from someone
in the room
through the window
on the phone
on the TV, on a record, in the computer.
God never told me to do good and become a tennis pro.
(He did tell me to look at the sky, but it was just an idea; there were no words exchanged.)
The closest I ever come to hearing voices is when I run the vacuum cleaner.
In the white noise there are patterns of possibilities of someone saying my name.
It makes me nervous,
gives me a feeling I'm missing something.
But there's no-one there.
I've received messages, but never in words.
Ideas arrive in my head fully formed, and they aren't my ideas.
If a voice had said them, my response would have been (a decidedly unprofound), "What? Really?"
I know this because one summer I understood everything.
No, really, everything.
I just didn't have the vocabulary to express it,
like a present you can't wrap because it won't fit in a box. Pieces stick out no matter what you do.
I was beautiful that summer, with mania exploding underneath my skin. Everything I passed reached out and told me something: rocks, grass, buildings, glass, animals of all kinds. And in my head, there were vibrations like a grand piano.
Eventually, it slipped away, like the tide. And I didn't feel the need to explain the universe to anyone anymore.
Now I try to stay very still, but I still get vibrations,
ideas, but mostly feelings that come from outside myself.
Leaves on the ground lay in patterns that say things I have no words for,
about the beauty of loneliness and sorrow and death.
The wind touches me, and my own feelings are crunched in a corner while someone else's longings and regrets rush in to drown me.
My wide-open mind lets in the ideas of ghosts, the ghosts of ideas.
How do you tell the dead to go away?
Sometimes I've thought voices would be nice. Not necessarily nice voices, but concrete. Like feeling sick and finding you have a fever of one hundred and two. You understand what to do.
I could stop fighting it, stop thinking, "People will think you're crazy." They would, but only because I would be. Maybe I could relax.
Because I would know I was hearing something,
I would be able to tell people, "Look, the voices in my head say this,"
and they would realize I was concretely, definitively crazy.
They would know who I really am.
I would fit in a box.
And I could curl up, like a cat.
Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth.
I have never heard a voice not coming from someone
in the room
through the window
on the phone
on the TV, on a record, in the computer.
God never told me to do good and become a tennis pro.
(He did tell me to look at the sky, but it was just an idea; there were no words exchanged.)
The closest I ever come to hearing voices is when I run the vacuum cleaner.
In the white noise there are patterns of possibilities of someone saying my name.
It makes me nervous,
gives me a feeling I'm missing something.
But there's no-one there.
I've received messages, but never in words.
Ideas arrive in my head fully formed, and they aren't my ideas.
If a voice had said them, my response would have been (a decidedly unprofound), "What? Really?"
I know this because one summer I understood everything.
No, really, everything.
I just didn't have the vocabulary to express it,
like a present you can't wrap because it won't fit in a box. Pieces stick out no matter what you do.
I was beautiful that summer, with mania exploding underneath my skin. Everything I passed reached out and told me something: rocks, grass, buildings, glass, animals of all kinds. And in my head, there were vibrations like a grand piano.
Eventually, it slipped away, like the tide. And I didn't feel the need to explain the universe to anyone anymore.
Now I try to stay very still, but I still get vibrations,
ideas, but mostly feelings that come from outside myself.
Leaves on the ground lay in patterns that say things I have no words for,
about the beauty of loneliness and sorrow and death.
The wind touches me, and my own feelings are crunched in a corner while someone else's longings and regrets rush in to drown me.
My wide-open mind lets in the ideas of ghosts, the ghosts of ideas.
How do you tell the dead to go away?
Sometimes I've thought voices would be nice. Not necessarily nice voices, but concrete. Like feeling sick and finding you have a fever of one hundred and two. You understand what to do.
I could stop fighting it, stop thinking, "People will think you're crazy." They would, but only because I would be. Maybe I could relax.
Because I would know I was hearing something,
I would be able to tell people, "Look, the voices in my head say this,"
and they would realize I was concretely, definitively crazy.
They would know who I really am.
I would fit in a box.
And I could curl up, like a cat.
Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth.
(no subject)
Date: Friday, 22 October 2010 03:18 am (UTC)Also "we need cake," but I don't think that was for you.
(no subject)
Date: Sunday, 24 October 2010 10:21 am (UTC)And I'm always getting "we need cake" vibrations, but I think those are my own.
ah yess
Date: Friday, 22 October 2010 10:26 pm (UTC)I here talking Animals.
They tell me to do things.
"Want coke!"
"you shoudent do that."
(when I was ordering something on the phone).
She is a parrot. She watches TV.
Re: ah yess
Date: Sunday, 24 October 2010 10:22 am (UTC)