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chris dawson - When the drugs work

2014-06-15 8 Dailymotion

I lay in my bed day after day, <br />my life of clouds and warm feelings, <br />Sometimes I couldn’t even feel my hands, <br />and yet I was so in touch with myself. <br />People floated by, nice people, <br />people who helped me, were nice to me, <br />lifted me and washed me. <br />I felt so clean, the whiteness was beautiful, <br />everywhere was white, except on the window cill, <br />the colour of the flowers there was so vivid, <br />it filled my mind. <br />They were always there, those same vibrant hues, <br />though so small in that big wide, white window. <br />They blocked out all beyond, the white/grey distance, <br />even the large pine was a haze. <br />I would drift and drift as the brilliance filled my mind, <br />that rainbow wafting though my imagination, <br />caressing, soothing, calming. <br />Sometimes I would focus on the vase, <br />a stain, a hairline crack so small that no one else in that world could see it, <br />I told them, but they would not listen, not even nice people can always hear you. <br />That soiled vessel would hurt, would wrack me with pain, <br />then when my hands would not move, my jaw frozen, lips numb, <br />that frustration would envelop not just my body, <br />but my whole being. <br />Although then, just as suddenly, I would see the flowers again, <br />and the warmth would return, the pastel life revisit. <br />That was then and now is now, <br />and now is living outside of that calm, that purity, that sanctuary, <br />no more white world, no more pastel living. <br />But I can control the flowers, <br />cleanse the vase. <br />I have to power to choose, and every day I can feel my body <br />and choose to loose touch with my mind. <br />I will always return to the asylum to replace those flowers, <br />not for the man in my bed, <br />but for me.<br /><br />chris dawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-the-drugs-work/

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