To be caught in the mud of deteriorating mental health can be extremely exhausting, and recovery can be even worse. This is the first poem of my Untitled series — a series about my experiences with deteriorating mental health and pathway to recovery. My journey through the mud of these sticky, dark days has yet to end, but the growth of this process has created a better version of me and given me the creativity to express it in writing.
How did I spend my nights before?
I keep to myself
so I don’t have to speak.
My words turn to poison when the sun falls asleep,
All the colors of intuition bubble up from inside,
I’d be guilty as charged
if my thoughts were a crime.
There might be something in the clouds,
but that’s just my bloated brain.
My eyes are too loud,
and my movements sound like rain.
There is more to me than my hopes for yesterday,
The finish line moves forward,
I’m always one step away.
But I still haven’t noted:
I’ve been spending way too much time in these
low-light,
dulled-sight,
no-fight,
foggy-skulled rooms.
