I wrote the following poem when I was struggling to differentiate between what was real to me and what others told me was real–the inherent confusion of the psychotic, thinking, believing, even knowing I knew better, knew more, could intuit things the experts couldn’t.

Long Ago

I went to the lilac bush

     because it was

                 is/is

     a safe place

     being nothing

     other than a branch

                a scent

     no light to make seeing happen

 

They told me I was sick

     but I knew

     that it was better

                we only know

                the real

                by the not real

 

Having lost

     all sense

     of up and down

                direction

the dignity of admitting

     I was wandering

                eyes closed

                following a faint glow

                of incense burning on a shelf

 

Smell, like touch, always precedes seeing