^{Photo by William Bout.
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Not Just Another Hospital Poem

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A dot
a swirl
a drop
a splash
            on Vincent van Gogh’s
painting palette dish.

Dr. B, filled with emotion, voice quivering over the phone:
Reiterated “I cannot lose you.” So it’s not my time to go!
My tears trying to stream down my cheeks—hot, stifled still.

Wishing I was dishing out assists on the basketball court yet at
[least able pursue my destiny to
write write write!
Writing away in this psycheward, not psyched out
by the blank page or the half-sized pencil the male nurse
handed me, but my heart had shrunk in size as I shouted
claiming to be the bad guy; then caught in restraints because
[prior he, the man, with the same
name of a prophet painted me that way due to my past
[—not useful in this now, still stuck in the
position of long-standing depression this confession.

I was located in San Francisco; this literary hub.
Should have been on the “outside” yet I was trapped
in the “inside”. Damn it—when will the subject matter of
my poems change? Whatever writing instrument I’m
granted with has a will of what needs to be said.

I will not deny this otherwise lies would be spewing
out on the page while my insides are torn up this
stomach my aching heart such a damn cliché, my
mind on fire, no water, California is in a drought (like
most of the country if I remember correctly).

The big picture, who said the iconic phrase: a picture is
worth a thousand worths - then how many pictures is
my poem worth? I was tired that those blind were
always shut and I didn’t know how to open them
in my bare room. I was tired of those random bruises
across my arms. I was tired of that one sunny day
with that one window in the main room blindless
that felt like it was burning my eyes instead of bringing
me joy. I’m tired of I’m tired of I’m tired of I’m tired of
trying to break this cycle. Who was my grandfather?
Who am I? Another day in the life someone who
wants to run at the speed of light.

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