matthew wunsch

Rookie (Long Island)

Epilepsy - Poem by matthew wunsch

I’ve spent all my money;
I don't even own myself today.
drugs that help me escape
a mind that's like a cage.
thoughts seep in through the ceiling
and drip out onto my brain
until a puddle turns to a flood
and I swim to stay awake.
my head's a hasten weight.
should I struggle to keep above the waves?
am I a prisoner of a mind frame
or am I free to make a change?
I become entrenched in past
as my bed fills up with fallen comrades.
I am a passing acquaintance
to all I’ve done
wayward to a parents son
they struggle hard every day to stay in love
with their drowning drunk.

pills to get work done
and drinking hard just to get drunk
in a cloud to speed up.
and with the fog outside my window
just smoke to block the sun.
voices once silenced awakened by the pain
of a hospital room
chained to a bed, with hallucinations my only truth
and pills fed to a doctor who cant remember his youth
there's a killer in our bedroom
bringing trays of food.

Dr. asks me if he's exposed?
the truth is... how weak we become
when our brain loses control.
he doesn't know if i am real
if I exist outside his mind...
I say 'I don’t know my dear friend, but i hope to find out in time.'
he blankly stares upon me
turns his back to me and walks forever through my mind.
I hear him shaking every night
pissing on his bed sheets, sedated till he's blind.

Now I’m not allowed to sleep at night
my brain is their endless crime.
Dr. Behind my curtain
talking into a dead phone line.
I ask him if they've answered
he says 'I want someone to save me just one time.'
and the people behind the camera screaming
'he's almost living his own life' and sedate his clever eyes

I stare out at a New York city sky
begging planes cutting through time
to barrel through our holding cell
just one time. but they fear for their un-medicated minds.
and i fought for our liberty day and night
but dr. by my bedside
has already died.
dear friend you changed my life.

all they do is boast their knowledge
they're fleeting and trite
and do just as directed every time.

'put the genius in a padded room until he dies.'


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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 7, 2009



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