Pulling Strings

“The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem. Do you understand?”

This fog, an ever presence that can be ruled.

But, how many pills can a man take before he becomes ruled.

Ruled to try and make life something true.

The truth is that he can’t stop what is true.

True that he’ll have to take them for the rest of his life.

A life that will never be without strife.

Strife that also comes from the knowledge of that if he stops the fog will come back.

The endless cycle that doesn’t seem to ever come off the track.

Circling round and a round.

A train releasing more fog into the brain like a shroud.

A shroud that makes his vision a blur.

an ever-present thing I try to rule,

but power blurs when counted out in pills.

How many can a man take, play it cool,

before he’s bent to someone else’s will?

They promise truth, a life that feels aligned,

a way to make the noise retreat and stall.

But truth is this: once fog is pushed aside,

you learn the cost of holding back its fall.

Because to stop is to invite it in,

thicker than before, a familiar track.

An endless loop of treating and of fear,

a train that never quite derails or cracks.

It circles round and round inside my head,

releasing smoke that clouds what I can see.

A shroud of motion — living, yet half-dead,

awake, but not entirely me.

I stand aboard, the engine still in drive,

a hand on brakes I’m scared to fully pull.

The train moves on.

I move.

I stay alive —

Pulling Strings.

As I sit here pulling the strings out of my pants. 

I realize the seriousness behind the weight of this dance. 

I can’t bring my tears back.

I can’t bring the crazy down from the rack.

The rack of the gun, I’m holding just away.

The question was; Should I stay?

The sound of the voice in the distance…

“Hey babe where are you.” 

The toss and the crash of coming back from that instance.