Release

Of late,
The hurt and despair of disappointment,
Has been great,
I have been to the brink.
Shutdown.
Meltdown.
Those who know intimately,
The acronym ASD.
May empathise.

But having returned from the abyss.
I find that there is still one threshold to cross.
It is difficult to explain,
But to venture into a place of such mental anguish,
Requires a similar return journey.
The cocktail of cortisol,
Mixed, not stirred,
With dry disappointment.
Leaves the brain numb and on high alert.

It takes a physical release,
A letting go,
To come back.
A long loving embrace,
Or even orgasm,
Achieves this state.

But today I discovered another way.
The reaction was identical,
Long sobs racking my body
Turning to hyperventilation.
I crumpled with the weight of it.
And the cause.
I just sang.

Shut Down

When all your systems shut down,
You cannot speak.
Yet in your head,
The conversation goes on.

They,
The ones who love you,
Ask questions:
You cannot answer,
Will not answer,
Or are so upset,
(Because they know you are mute,
But persist in the  incessant ridiculous questioning,
And back you into a corner)
That you will EXPLODE!
If you answer.

And then you will be ashamed.
Because it is not their fault.
That you are full.

Sometimes you just stop.

It creeps up slowly.
It is not exactly a malaise.
Your spirit remains intact.
You are not feeling hopeless or despairing.
Yet you are simply,
Not feeling.

But as you must,
Do something.
You do what is closest to hand.
Write these observations,
Into poetry.

Sit, not comfortably,
On the hearth rug.
Your outside coat,
Still on.
Your outside shoes also,
Still on.l
Ignore the twinges of pain your back,
And the pins and needles in your feet.x
The fire's warmth compensates.

You have one focus,
The task at hand.
He has made you a cup of tea,
But you have insufficient will,
To move your hand to take it up.
Now he has asked you a question.
But you can't think,
To make any decision.

This is what it is like when you are full.
Detached!