Mental health

Sure he was always a bit quiet

No harm in that

No harm in him

Oh don’t know

Shocking temper

Mild to nuclear

Took no prisoners

Blood flowed

Ah no more than before

A bit more

Sure the size of him he has plenty to spare

His memories flowed

Away and back

To and fro

Meandering here and there

Just beyond reach

Then cascading in

I’m in in in they screamed

The voices screamed

No he roared and he cried

And bleed from his eyes

The head case

Ah no harm in him

He liked to touch the petals

The petals

Caress the petals to feel the quiet

To sense the calm of nature

To hear the colours he closed his eyes

And dreamt of the leaves falling

Drilled a hole in his head

Nah his lower back

And his head

Nah that’s just mental

A rumour

A procedure

So many thoughts to decipher

Intelligence breeds the madness

A strange world for one who thinks

Too much

Way too much

Can’t change a leopards spots

Or a mule’s nature

An inclination to be thick

Thick as fuck

He figures stuff out you know

Solves problems

Sees the wood

For the trees

Awful dense jungles

In the labyrinths of the thoughts

As they flow from paranoia to dreams

From theories to substance

From imaginations to poems

Drained the black from the white

Pressure he was under pressure

His brain or his mind

His soul or his self

Who knows who cares

Who wonders

He wonders

Why kindness is scorned

Why love is lost

Why lust is carved from stone

When love should be found

And lust melted from the wind

Of a butterfly’s wings

Is he mad

Or bad

Does he dream nightmares

Is he a nightmare

Is his violence in his soul

Is his kindness in his mind

Lost or found

Leave him run free in the field

Wild screaming to the banshee’s air

Calling out to the world

Sure who’d be caring or listening

Not even himself

A funny fucker at times

Strange

Nah just funny

He’d make you laugh

Or smile

Just wants the quiet

Sure who doesn’t

Loads don’t

Loads do

Hasn’t much to say for himself

Would talk the hind legs of a mule

Different strokes for different

Moments in time

Sometimes the words are lost inside

With nothing to say

Or nothing to feel

Just calm

Calm waters are the easiest to disturb

Throw in a pebble and a tsunami

Rips the heart out of the island

Still they drained the black

The pressure gently easing

Close his eyes

Close his eyes

And let his mind see the dreams

He seeks inside

Clean the blood and clean the skin

Refresh the mind

Let the river flow

Let the thoughts

Crash and flow

Gentle and wild

Let me be the man

Who touches the petals

Who talks to himself

Who sleeps in the quiet

Who roars in the night

Whose brain works and works

And travels here and there

North to east south to west

To see all the beauty

He can imagine and feel

And write something

Of beauty that meanders over your

Mind and touches your heart

And makes you shiver

And smile and love

Frankie writing after realising mental health is just a fine thread so easily tripped over. Where in lies the blame? Certainly not with anyone else but Frankie himself and not even fully with him for chemicals mix and match and swap and combine and he takes responsibility for everything himself and for his mind and thoughts and anger and the line we walk is one we can balance upon but the tight rope walker has a safety net because no matter how good he is he knows sometimes he will need the net to catch him. Thank god for the doctors and the nurses and the therapists who are our nets . And thanks for the pen and paper or keyboard which is the estuary to the opium of my soul which is my need to write