I won't touch it

I won’t touch it. I don’t need my medication. I’m as fine as...don’t compare me to who I was ten years ago. My candle is not yet out. I’m more creative and in control without the little pills. It doesn’t suit me – the diagnosis. I’m an artist. I’ll lose my voice. I’ll sleep all day. What’s the purpose of taking a tranquilizer? So I’ll blackout? I have better things to do than sit in silence. It’s like a dark knight sky without stars, constellations or the hint of a moon. I don’t want to be in outer darkness. There are certain roles I’ve been cast for and crazy is not one I accept. Could you rewrite the script? Maybe I could invite the distant strangers who flock to me like angels. Who let me sing without being dashed into the rocks. The blood looks fake to me. The blood I bleed looks fake to me. I’m not schizophrenic. These walls are man-made. And last I checked a mouth sewn shut can not speak poetry to life. Can I speak? Can I speak to someone else? I’d like a second opinion. I’d like the freedom to write the script myself or at least comment. Don’t close the door. Five seconds more and I would have looked for the first window. Oh, I’m in a hospital – a room without a bed, where I can walk in circles. Why would I shut my mouth? It keeps running, my mind keeps running, holding onto ribbons and the banner in the sky is red. There is no name on it. So I let go and watched myself from a distance. Signing papers I had not read. I knew I was in trouble.