A poem to my madness (1)

My therapist has asked me,
Rather categorically,
To sit with my Emptiness
My lows and my melancholy.

It is easier than it sounds,
Let me assure you.
Emptiness is ephemeral
Diaphanous, see-through.

Were my Emptiness a box of paints
Were it a clear cup of tea
Were it a dense book of poems
Or a selfish lover, thinking up an exit strategy

I’d sit with it quietly
And take a sip or three
Of the tea, the book, the colour
And let the lovers leave

Meds would keep me in check
He says, and I have to agree,
So I don’t burn down the world
And set my mad insides free.

They’ll help you deal, he tells me.
Just sit with it, just sit, just sit.
Ignore your paints, tea, your lovers
Just sit, just sit, just sit with it .

But Emptiness, you know, isn’t good company,
Even with the quitiapine mellowing me.
It grows and fills, swells and blows
A bubble, a vice, a prison you see.

I could fill it with cake,
A wank, cigarettes or heavy sleep.
But all I am to do is just sit, just sit, just sit with it
If, a big if, I am my mind to keep.

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