Wellbutrin in my Brain

There is Wellbutrin in my brain,

and I’d like to get it out.

It has stayed far too long -

the formidable clout

of its club fisted edges,

That pried out my eyes

and deftly snipped stitches

from my brain -

In dreams my teeth

have mostly fallen out.

“And I wonder”,

I whisper aloud - too loudly:

where I was, what I did?

yesterday in a cloud….

Where's my phone or my wallet,

my mind, my disguise?

Who took them?

Was it you or that stealthy NDRI?

Eating all my grey matter

with tea like Mad Hatter.

I'm fat and puffy yet endlessly hungry,

my hair in my hands and

my back to the wall of a cliff;

then falling, falling

into a Dali sea -

Rife and roiling with

lunatics like me.

All I did was try;

but life at times proves hard -

With little sleep, little babies, little men.

Or maybe a Leprechaun did it to me -

While megalomaniacs

with their perky careers,

nod their heads,

dot their i’s

then turn a deaf ear.

I am dying in here.

I can't seem get out,

from the weight of the pain

and horrendous gout -

Like the snout of a ghastly Frisco seal -

I’m snorting smoke signals

in a hopeless appeal -

Could I make this up?

God saw me not -

Nor heard me screaming:

“I forgot!”

How to go on? And go on I must,

for there is nothing

in the skies you see -

At least nothing that’s just:

No Angels, no demons,

nor circles with Dante;

No pearly white gates

nor red horns on Satan;

Not even your naughty Minotaur -

with its head of you, man

and the flesh of my breast -

No matter how much you want there to be.

Only worms and dirt,

coffins and me -

our own little babies and the

endless sea.

I rose adrift on a raft of twigs

a sinking hull with whipstitch lashings,

a remnant of what I learned while falling;

no sail, no compass -

nets endlessly trawling.

In a storm for the ages

I've washed up on shore

battered and broken yet

drowning no more.

Begging for water;

fresh - not salt laden,

I’ve enough in my well

of the tears now abated.

So what will become of

my huge frontal lobe?

Of my life, of my heart -

both woefully splayed,

spread eagle on rocks -

Seagulls ripping away

the entrails and innards

of my body’s own pockets -

Paired with once fragrant wine

gone awry in my crotch.

They pick clean the memories

of you, sad man, and me -

Remember us once and our glassy eyed stares?

Glowering back from the page -

now, no one’s there.

I alighted the rooftop

couldn't leave, couldn't jump

so I held on and prayed

I had nipples to pump -

Cough me up, spit me out!

I leave in my wake

deep oceans of grief,

waves cresting with guilt.

The Painful divide

of perceived demise.

I'm alive and I know

there's no place to go back to.

Our pain is only as deep

as we practice.

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