I been recently diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder based on a imbalance in my brain. (my brain just going into a rest mode when I sleep insteading of sleeping) This causes me to be dizzy, tired all the time and sometimes hallucinate. Well I just wrote this poem below this past week after being diagnosed. The medicine is working and I'm doing well.

If I could turn this day dream off,
without having to open another door to the under world,
feel solid handles slip from my hands,
and still have an imagination better than yours, I would;
not be reminded by the empty bottles of pills
that it's wrong to see what I see,
feel what I feel and to be mad about nothing;
something that I can’t change.

I know the sun really doesn’t have a face like mine
and there aren't demons standing by my bed.
The dripping, pouring, scratchy and click-clacking sounds
are coming from my mind and that its my own ice stare,
odd backward look and howl.
It's not normal, but it doesn't keep me awake.

If I could control time,
I would, take tomorrow in my arms like the perfect groom,
and we’d dance like nothing matters anymore
but the way we move around my house without anyone knowing we‘re home,
the way we comb each others hair and wash each others back,
sit in the dark and talk without nothing playing on the radio
but our song.

God! If I can only reach out and stroke some body,
without leaving a bruise, I would;
get a grip on arguments and say my final peace
but my lips are in plastic containers
caught on hooks
and my voice is strangled with old strings
that tie me to past screams.

I could see my life from outside my window
but my eyes are flying carpets snagged on short cuts
in a thorn valley
dancing with the town ghost in a city of bliss,
watching the tea pot on my stove
hiss and dry heave for an hour
and my cat swat at a crippled fly.

The walls curse and call me names,
I know I'am,
but I push them out the way with my elbows
because I don’t have time to argue anymore.
I been standing here longer than them and if I wanted to,
I could make them my floor.

I got to make sure the lemon cake doesn’t
fall flat on its back
Just from the sound of my breath beating it down.
stamp my heart to
these letters I wrote to me
before the cost of lieing to me
go up and I can’t even afford
to make believe someone is thinking of me.

This is torture, I know,
but I never said I was any good,
just a rambling sick woman.

You can talk when I'm through and I feel better.


Written April 3, 2003
S. Hunter-Wilson