Mixed Messages Of Me

By Peter Harris

I can't do right for doing no wrong,

And I'm in the wrong for striving for right.

That's how it feels after months of psycho-analysing myself.

After thousands spent on therapy.

These realisations are the mixed messages of me:

1.

I'm desperate to heal and to grow,

To bury my pain below.

I strive day and night

To live in the light

And reap from the seeds I sow.

But the pursuit of self-improvement,

The never-ending self-work,

Is itself an escape from the hurt.

My own brand of polished performance,

A fleeting form of assurance

To which I have a reliance:

Another disguise for my aching avoidance.

2.

I mourn like there must be an ending

And try to bury that which never dies.

I know grief does not conclude;

It bends and shifts and multiplies.

Yet I still train my heart for a finish line,

But it's a race that has no prize.

I want the weight to lift with time,

For sorrow to thin as years go by.

But grief stays steady, solid, near;

It does not fade, just learns to lie.

It weaves itself into my days,

A grey cloud stitched into the sky.

3.

No one is coming to save me,

Yet I still crave hands that brave me.

Support and love, they matter,

But they can't climb my ladder.

The work of living is mine,

Though I often beg for a lifeline.

Connection calls me near,

But it's solitude which keeps me here.

I need to be held; yes, I do,

But holding me can't carry me through.

A partner conceals the ache,

But loneliness wakes when I wake.

You soften the drop when I fall,

But a net is no cure at all.

So even with someone in place,

I feel all alone in this space.

4.

My thoughts declare themselves as fact,

But half of them are lies in disguise.

They hammer their nails behind my eyes,

And I can't tell the truth from what they've cracked.

"I don't care if I don't wake up tomorrow"

Is a common thought I'm sold,

By a brain that wants escape from the cold.

I hear it even when I'm not defined by sorrow.

If every thought’s a riddle, how can I decide?

One whispers no, the other yes, and both feel true.

The voice inside me splits in two,

And I walk both roads without a guide.

5.

I shiver, I fracture, I splinter apart:

My glass-made body and breakable heart.

Every sharp edge tells me I can't restart.

Yet still I bend, I bruise, I mend,

I stagger, I stumble, but never quite end.

The cracks are the proof that I can defend.

I've never felt so fragile and so weak;

I chew my tongue in my cheek,

And search for the strength I need to seek.

I'll splinter, I'll scar, but I won't collapse.

I'll fight through the breaks and every relapse.

Fragile maybe, but stronger perhaps.

Closing.

These are the mixed messages of me.

I'll spell it out in case it's hard to see.

I chase self-improvement, but it hides my avoidance.

I grieve for an ending, but know there is no deliverance.

I crave connection, yet still retreat into silence.

I trust my thoughts, though I know they defy compliance.

I feel so fragile, yet I bend with resilience.

These are the mixed messages of me.

If you want them, you can have them for free.

Will they continue ruling my life?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

By Peter Harris