Coping with my disease
is hard enough for me alone
yet I seem to inflict my pain
on others who don't deserve it.
Sitting up in the middle of the night,
trying desperately to sort me out
is an exhausting process.
Even medication cannot keep me forever.
He sleeps in there - I can't disturb him
God, - will you hold my hand
through this night?
can you tell me about my tomorrows?
Why is just living hard for me?
I am at the border of society
always peeking in but never "normal"
he calls me hyper and wild.
I have been reading his poetry.
He knows me well for such a short knowing:
Am I that transparent.
Why, God, is change so difficult?
These episodes of pain are wearying
why am I so reactive to events
that in the perspective of time
are so insignificant?
Helen O'flarety
September 17, 78
written at my apartment
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —