After The Rooms

[jackspaldingdavis]

Recently, after some dark events you can probably guess at, I was admitted to a psychiatric ward for a period of time. I wrote this poem this morning after being discharged.

AFTER THE ROOMS

After the rooms, a sense of decoded ritual trickles down my arm.

All else fails accept a knowledge of cold steel pressed against my skin.

I can think of better things when I cannot see them.

Things other than empty waste baskets and ironic cups of tea.

An old place where I once lived but now am alive.

An odd taste mixed with a cramp in my hands

Cant hold anything for too long.

Can’t rejoice in knowing I’m not gone, not yet.

Not to forget what I felt before this.

An awful whispering beckoning me towards my inner pestilence.

I take a guess towards my reactions,

to confess my actions.

To try, I'll try. Harder than I really can,

softer than I know I am.

A sensitivity to this divinity she gives to me.

To those around.

I'll try.

And for a second. Almost two.

I feel a linger.

A hope of something new.

A river that may never reach the sea.

Though ending in a misused dream.

Misplaced before I even looked.

A stolen rock and leaf I took.

Again,

I'll try.

Listen.

Maybe learn.

But many scars and many burns.

In the end I'll try to clean,

the mirrors deep inside of me.