Once I had mental illness. Perhaps I still do
And don’t know it, but that’s okay. I’m feeling fine.
If I had something physical, I might feel pain.
Would I then have a reason to bitch and complain
About life? It could be that I’m ill by design.
Any excuse for my behavior I’ll cling to.
There’s a kind of arthritis that cripples the mind
And makes of it a battlefield. I remember
Ways that I’ve treated others. I shelter my shame
In my writing. I have but my own self to blame
For the damage. This life has been a disaster
As I now reflect on how to leave it behind.
Positive thoughts evade me when pain is intense.
I can think only thoughts that reflect how I feel
At any given moment. The need to detach
Is apparent. I am a vibrational match
To all that enters my life. My self-made ordeal
Is a foolishly pathetic psychic expense.
My body with its sick mind is different from
The intense emotion that steals my attention.
I can change how I feel much easier than I
Can get rid of the illness. I don’t have to try
To get better. I remain in this dimension
Looking forward to whoever I may become.