I’m not the fool on the hill!
I’m not standing still,
While my eyes do shrill.
I believe in the Lord’s will,
As I take my sugar coated pill.
I’ve had it with the world’s fill.
Why can’t I be a light on the hill?
David Holloway (c) 2014
Alone with myself in a situation that pits my own wits against my own wits,
a fight within myself that cannot be won.
A tangent on a pile of tangents left to wander, lost within itself,
in an infinite loop of paranoia that feeds back into itself and poisons my mind.
I hold onto myself in hopes that I do not drift away, only to find myself lost
hoping to find myself again on a path that only leads away from who I am
that connects to another path that leads me away from everything I want to be.
A heaviness sets in that can not be thrown off for all my strength
I am weak by no means yet I cannot move it.
If it were any other man it would crush them,
but I am conditioned to it for I have been carrying this weight my whole life.
If the foe were other than myself I would defeat him,
but I know all of my own tricks.
How can you counter your own mind when it already knows how to defeat you?
So here I am in a battle for my own life and when I win it is only just barely.
A small stroke of luck.
It never feels as if it is by my own merits or skill.
When will the luck run out?
What will be the tide that sweeps me to a loss so great that I am lost forever.
And when that happens who will bring me back?
If I am even there at all, my essence swept away.
Here no more.
And only the monsters of my mind left behind.
By: Danny Walter
The Willow stands central in the garden,
Weeping onto winter’s bitter shoulder.
I hear her crying in the dead of night,
I pull a pillow over my head;
But the sadness still remains.
Her slumped trunk,
Her sagging skin,
A vertical eye forever open.
Her branches hang like broken arms,
Swaying limply in the wind.
When the morning comes I awake
With the same dread in my stomach
That she feels in her roots.
She wails ceaselessly.
The birds stay away.
Even a sleeting shower provides no relief.
She is forced to drink the rain
That prolongs her anguish
That adds another day to this persistence
Known as nature.
The poor Willow tree,
Baring her flesh for us all to view.
Wilting and whining at the oaks and beech
Standing tall with pride; something she never had;
Something she’ll never know.
For she forever will weep,
Nothing can lift her weary head.
Let her pass on.
Let her century come to rest,
And fell her falling frame.
Jonny Benjamin (c)
‘Pill After Pill’