my mind is a monster; these are the most turbulous days since birth.

with a throat so bloated
and a most hideous face, swollen, about to burst,
I did not sleep for three nights
unable to swallow, spit!
unable, even, to let close my mouth, spit, spit!

forget it all, the flesh bruised behind my skull
is pathetic.

I have learned this [weak] that through sickness
one may learn of their darknesses.
dwelt, I:
myself in the overcast of my spirituality.
myself lost in the thickest, most delirious and taunting
wood of shadow: I have lain uninspired and useless.
I have been unable to pick my rotting skin up, plunk!
and at the attempt for creation, the only energy to surface
was an angry, deep basin of drawspeak inability.

I only regained consciousness at the pain of my clenched jaw,
out of place with the aid of my malnourished strength
in the destruction of a drying canvas, twisted 'round
my aching limbs, painted all over I, reversed expression.

what happened to me?

I am capable of this anger?

I could not let myself rest, and rest well
to heal and return to myself
and let creation come to me, like it usually does.
I needed it. I forced myself to it, attack!

suffering may be the elation of the soul when passed
for the lessons instilled.