Northward

Another desperate four a.m.

up before the crow.

Who am I kidding, I never slept,

but no one has to know.

Under the sheet of morning

falls another sleepless slumber.

I used to have a count somewhere,

though, I fear too high the number.

Gripping to the pillow,

there are no tears in sight-

it’s a different kind of madness

when you don’t observe the night.

Nocturnal in the sense

that it’s not so ‘hip’ to be,

the ominous chains of insomnia

have seemed to one up me.

It has me walking around a stallion

with the spirit of a lamb.

It has me running though the streets

without the strength to stand.

Maybe soon I’ll collapse

and allowed to sleep forever

so I can stop opening the window

hoping for foul weather

Yet every looming morning

comes with the sun shining bright;

I suppose I’ll stay exhausted

until I am invited back by the night.

-LMA

I was diagnosed. Here starts the beginning of trying to find the balance in between two extremes. It’s going to change my life, but I can’t let it change who I am. I am more than a clinical diagnosis, I won’t let it define me.

I heard them call you crazy,

but in a laughing way.

Not quite taking seriously

any statement you would say.

They thought you were a mad man,

one full of antidotes and zest.

Someone born to stand out,

clinically different from the rest.

No one ever knew your actions,

were not your choice.

No one ever looked past,

the level of your voice.

Manic in tone

and manic in pace.

No one ever saw the disease,

that had taken your place.

Instead you were left

to wither away.

Brought down by the actions

of your vice’s decay.

Another night of whiskey

and a day with the powder,

but minute by minute

the disease only grew louder.

Overtaking any traces

the real you had left.

A book definition

of the greatest theft.

When we aren’t able

to be our own;

and it’s not our choice,

how our actions are shown.

And until I was the one,

who became stolen just like you,

I never understood

anything you would do.

Like why you weren’t there

to hold my hand,

or to help pick me up

when I could not stand.

But please know that its not,

you who I resent;

it’s this horrible monster,

that chose us to torment.

We’ll forever be defined

by something no one can see.

Giving them the impression ,

this façade is really me.

L. Abbate