It comes hidden in an argument, insists on being right, as if you are a medium for rage; of course it then recoils in shame and turns the anger in; you both agree the better part of you has lost the fight. It gains.
Resistance whispers guilt and plagues the night in dreams which find
you both agree and actively accede
to prove the verdict right.
It changes shape, appears as if a form of heart disease, shortening breath, waging war inside your chest, insists on being right.
Immobilised, the jury picks at evidence, mediating arguments about responsibility
and the will to fight.
Resistant, still, and watching from the stalls,
the defendant gives up no defence at all.
The rehabilitation teams all give the same advice,
as if recidivists might all avoid old traps
released and returned home,
to face adversaries.
Sage tomes intone
⁃ Just before you hear the click,
⁃ before you lift the latch,
⁃ before you open the door
and let the old dog back;
⁃ just before the ‘whatever it is’
⁃ say to yourself:
⁃ ‘I’ve got this’.
⁃ (I wish).
Comment – I wrote this poem after falling into a gloomy, hopeless space, but talking about it with friends. As this open note of thanks explains:
Dear Friends, known and unknown.
Thank you – all.
I found myself (guilty of) caving in to a compelling voice that told me I just couldn’t be bothered. And I felt as if I was actually choosing to act that out –
But you all sent lots of love – and I reckon it’s ok not to bother, much, sometimes, if you’ve run out of bothering.
But the trick is, just to let yourself hang out with your nicer self – and friends – for a bit. Re-charge. Love yourself. Well, I wish I remembered to do that more.
And I wrote this complicated poem about allowing that nasty voice in my head to gain control.
Sometimes, it just does – despite all the life experience, strategies and friends in the world.
Reach out. I did. You were there. Thank you. I’m not saying ‘I feel better now’ – that would be silly. I am saying, thank you and please stick around. As a good friend reminded me, ‘there are not really many good days or bad days but there are good bits of most days’. I’ll take that.
All love
Cherry
Cherry Coombe 