Delusion

A poem, intended to be performed, on the subject of mental health.

They define delusion as an untrue belief, it can not be found in fact, it is not based in evidence, it can not be changed. When evidence is presented it is dismissed and the delusion continues. They define this as a problem, neurological, psychological, physiological. To believe what is untrue may seem to you an obvious way to tell if someone is out of touch with the world in which the rest of us so sanely occupy. Psychotic disorders, paranoid delusions, delusions of grandeur but it is so wrong to think that there might be more to oneself than what one sees around us. Why must we crush the dreams of one who is just trying to find a reason to make life a little more bearable. And when one man screams from the rooftops that God, the master of all things that are in this man's eyes has whispered all the mysteries of the universe into their ear, we called them prophets or preachers or priests but when the same man says that the devil told him to start the fire we use the word psycho. And who knew that 'word salad' is a recognised medical term. I don't know why it shouldn't be; why I find more comfort in cold clinical Latin terms. I guess it makes me feel a little more severe to know that words can not be found in even our own language to describe this. It makes it feel more serious than what sounds to me like the dieter's equivalent to alphabetti spaghetti.

Chin up, perk up, cheer up, look on the bright side, pull yourself together, think happy thoughts, count your blessings, keep the light going and it will scare all of the demons away but it’s impossible to start the fire when I’m incapable of even producing a spark. The awful thing is that I don’t know if I even want to kindle the fire. Am I addicted to my own sadness? It is so hard to admit when everyone around you is looking for any excuse to find a way to shed some light when all the colour has gone. I don’t hide the pills, I don’t flush them, I don’t empty them away,   I take them like I’m told to. But when I look back to before the chemical cures began the voices screamed and yes sometimes the screams were unbearable but occasionally their words would hold such beauty that my tears were not of sadness but of awe. I am stuck waiting for the dawn but doesn’t the dark sky hold just as much beauty as the sunrise? Or is that just me? Maybe… I guess so.