Coyprighted material of C.H. Green

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Friday, May 20, 2011


Black bile boils up in your throat

Wanting to spit, you start to choke

On all the wrongs unjustly received--

As jealous hands connived and deceived;

Your stomach rolls at the thought that they

Abused your trust and walked away,

And they now hold the golden key

While you lie wasting in misery.

--C.H. Green©2005


Poison paranoia.
Diagnosis: Imbalance
Of chemical origin.
This revealed in voices
All too real from doctor's lips.
I hear the words, but deny
Their meaning.
Not me, not mine...
“We're fine,” I say, stumbling
Over scientific nomenclature
Like marbles scattered
Along my path.
Unsuspecting of such
I am defenseless.
I cannot stop reeling
From these terrifying thoughts.
Delusional. Manageable.
Incurable. Inevitable
Breaks from reality...
He drones on and on.
And I wonder if this
Is how it feels....
This deluge of conflict
Flooding over the mind
And drowning out what is real.


My Heart

My Heart--calls me softly sometimes
Like a dove on a summer day.
On the edge of memory she sits
And beckons me to play.

To soothe her gypsy soul,
With a song or two and then
Open the door to the gilded cage
And let her see beyond the bend.

At times she flies towards heaven--
But gets caught in a bitter wind
And then she flutters near the earth
Thinking it better to pretend,

That she and I are separate--
Two birds, two lives, two songs
And yet I know the untold truth
She’s not where she belongs.

--C. H. Green @2007