I’m in a strange place. The days all merge into one. At any given time I do not know the date even if I have seen it fifty times that day, as I play computer games and “chat” to others on twitter. There are so many things I feel I should be doing. Many poems and stories drift aimlessly through my mind. I cannot grasp the ends of these tales or tasks. I cannot yank them into being. Something concrete does not set.

For the moment I am not seeing the psychiatrist. My last visit, I wasn’t really there. He talked, I didn’t listen. The voices in my head all bickered, throwing up obstacles. I felt he kicked me out yet logically I know he knew he wasn’t getting through. It was obvious.

Now I ask myself these questions.  Should I make another appointment? Would it matter if I never saw him again? Am I still me after all of this??

With autism, schizoid behaviour, multiple personalities weaving their way, together with depression and anxiety, my overactive imagination sometimes sees me as a monster. All alone and a monster to boot!!

Except I’m never really alone, not with all those voices in my head. Even through the antipsychotic barrier my voices still bravely talk, telling me bits of stories and poetry. One day I will grasp the ends and unravel to the beginning and there I’ll find all of me waiting where I’ve always been.

Perhaps this monster does need to make an appointment after all. An appointment with the psychiatrist…………and soon.


Copyright September 2015

I can tell


Troll sketch by Terry Whidborne


I can tell

I make you uneasy

you sit there

and fidget

as we talk

and then

in the silence

I know

you hate me

now I sit here

and fidget

it is me

who’s uneasy

You can tell



Copyright June 2015

The Lack of Poetry

with a hole in my heart

where words are supposed to fit

I yearn for missing poetry

from someone never met


one day my heart will be consumed

eaten by this unfed hunger for more

all that poetry will be lost

smashed against my empty ribs in transit

from one hollow space to another


I will remain a sack of bones in skin

cushioned with fat so no one can see

the lack of me inside of me

the lack of me in your poetry


Copyright March 2015