Trying To Find The Bridge
While the fake majority laughs
If they drive me mad,
to doubts and fears
and a constant scream
stuck down my throat
stomping my chest
like heavy boots
pounding my heart until,
at the end of the fuse,
it swells and explodes,
scooping out a final
quiet place —
will I have failed?
Would I be the kind of failure
the fake majority relies on
to win the long con?
Words come slow to me in the fog,
the antidepressant fog I slipped into
again, on purpose,
to stop the choking
and the pounding boots
that make me into a bomb.
It was time to take the scream down
a precious notch,
and the fog tries again to save me.
But always, when it clears
and my pages fill,
there isn’t enough language
to talk, to reach across. To heal anything.
For now, I squint in the gray
at refrains tumbling in and out,
and hope to find a bridge.
Copyright 2020 Ré Harris. All rights reserved.
