Wednesday, February 16, 2005


Take it from a paincushion: nobody wants to be around a paincushion. There are two boundaries from which there is no return: Death and Madness. In March, it will be eleven years I've lived with schizophrenia. Too often I think of the impossible when I write; I need to learn my limits.


I bring the gift of pain
My problems on your doorstep
Too many problems start
With pain expressed to deafness

I lead my words with anguish
Too much, too fast, too painful
I search for understanding
But garnish only pity

You'd think I'd learn my lesson
The limits of my life
But no, I still avail
Myself to my affliction

Too often with my demons
I come to wish for Mercy
While I'm still armed with Hope
And staring down my fears

For now, I pass by Scylla:
Leave one with medication
In time I'll try Charybdis:
Risk all to find a cure

At gunpoint I'll claim truth
A bullet for the weary
The fear of hell won't stop me
From longing for the Exit

What Love can chase me down,
Put limits on my pain?
In Proverbs there are lies
In Job, I feel the truth

I know I should not falter
But everyone is weak.
Sometimes my desperation
Takes arms against my Madness

It leaves me seeking silence
And longing Love's embrace
Release won't come from violence
But pain won't show me grace.

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