Beetis.

Diabetic drug damage depression.

Tonight I feel it.
I feel it wicked hard.
In my heart and in my lungs.
In my head.

My brain itself.
It feels like it's trying to slowly turn,
to slowly flip itself upside down inside my skull.
Grey matter scraping and grinding against the bone encasement of my skull.

Must have had too much sugar.
Must have had too much salt.

Not thinking straight.
Feeling real bad in my heart.
Physically
and in the emotional sense.

My hand continues to go to my head,
unbidden by my mind.
I feel so small in this chair.
This room suddenly feels as massive
and as cavernous
as an ancient concert hall.

I think how funny it would be if I died
after sending this out to the expansive information superhighway.

Will it make me live on?
Will I be forever?
Far beyond this life.
And far, far beyond this death.

Author's Note

'wicked' as used in this piece is used in the New England slang sense for 'really'.

Reviews

[kollaboratyve]

I like the word choice of your poem. The tone is like a joy ride in the brain. The imagery is real from the start with a good whisp of emotional reality. Good write!!!!!!!