Reads: 80  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 28, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 28, 2018






What matters most to me.


Feels like a genetically tenuous string

Connecting me with everything I hold most dearly.


The mind feels like a delicate and fragile thing.

If you had grown up with me, then maybe,

You would know what I’m saying.

You would understand intimately the fear of losing

Your familiarity with reality.

You would know just how terrifying it would be 

To have to question absolutely everything, 

Because nothing is as it seems.


Perception is off and you don’t know what to believe

Which phantoms are people or what’s deceit 

And what’s trustworthy.


It’s got to be lonely in the Unknowing.


A betraying memory means everyone’s guilty.

If no one is worthy then disowning them all

Seems more than reasonably tempting,


We are speaking into my biggest fears here.


I look into the face of someone who died years ago.

You can’t really grieve someone who’s technically here, though.

In a world where even suicide is less of a sorrow,

And Hope feels like chasing gold at the end of yesterday’s rainbows.

Making me feel like something less than human,

Though it takes acumen to see death as really

The only proven movement or reference for deliverance.


But how inhuman is that?


I’ve questioned my humanness, forwards and back,

Spun my wheels to the ears of Creator ‘til they spun 

Off the tracks;

Chased my fears in the bat black night of emotional combat,

Until combat became the habitat my heart turned acrobatic tricks in

So therapists could call them overreactions.


Yes, these riddles feel like obsessions,

So many confessions,

Chose my profession for the progression

Of these answerless questions.


Why must any person suffer?

Perhaps with the invention of the right intervention

Offered to an unrelated other,

I can offer some comfort to the malignant struggle of my

Own Mother.

Mental illness has stolen so many parents,

Aunts, uncles, sisters and brothers,

Cousins and best friends.

Every story needs an ending but 

I don’t know how this story ends yet – 

So I will bookend this poem with two

Determined semicolons;

The mark of something that could have ended,


But didn’t.  

© Copyright 2019 R.H. Rising. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: