Musings (a poem for the schizophrenic)

Musings for me and my imaginary pals-

The whining April night;

Humid, horrid and ungrateful

She hides in my blackest shadows

She shadows my blackest hide

Leaving me alone with Dr. Jekyll

And a dry bottle of whine.

The moon, this pen and pad are my companions.

The moon waxing in her magnetic charm

Far from friendship’s bosom

Yet close enough to taste the romantic elixir

Of longing and language.

The black April night, nearly numb now,

Waits near the gallows of daybreak.

A mercenary cloaked in the garb of the original nightlight.

The undulating evening in April

Where all my nightmares come alive

After I leap bravely into my cold bed sheets

The tide of the p.m. swells

Reminding my mind

Of

All

My

Sins.

They are brass

They are rusted

They are purple and purposeful

Some are only known by the fiend

That lays his head on my pillowcase.

Far from the easy water of the deepest well

Lay the lies of a lifetime,

Spread out upon the bedspread of guilt

Quilted with the silver stitches of consequence.

Judged by the night,

Condemned by the moon glow,

Tortured and strangled

In the silence.

The silence of the night;

When the mind won’t stop speaking into my

Headphone earwax

Spinning me around the clock

After dusk gives in and

Just before the dawn buttons her apron

Making promises that she will never keep.

These are the hours of loneliness only known

By the strange ones;

The manic artist,

The mad poet,

The lunatic writer and the musician who does not fit in.

Those of us who MUST heed to our art

When it starts screaming

Songs,

Death threats,

Poems
And plots and schemes scratching out

Mentality’s suicide notes that never find their porch lights when the shameful itch begins to search for long fingernails far beyond the midnight hour

Insomniacs;

Laying on mattresses

Or couches of regret.

Playing in our own

Worlds;

Gods of makeshift realities

That leak from our mind-wands

Exchanging sorrow

For joy

Heartache

For humor

Anxiety

For pen strokes

Worry

For fiction.

The night time is

Nothing

for me and my worn-out brain,

Its improvisation

After the band is gone

And the lights are out

I am alone,

Wide awake

And far away from dream dust.

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