All Aboard The Pain Train.

All Aboard The Pain Train.

Have your tickets ready, before you do enter the train,
The train says not; ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ and it is, increasingly vain,
But it’s all shadows for you now; and you will live life in a corner,
And it will ruin the rest of your days, and make many people; a mourner,
When you live life with voices; living, within your skull,
The world around you, does seem scary, and tough; alike a ships hull,
But the worst part of a person with schizophrenia’s day,
Is when some other person, says some bad words; and then goes on their way,
The words ruminate in your head, and they stay with you,
The thoughts make you feel sick; and feel so blue,
It is a crushing feeling when the looks, from eyes, do slap your face,
And make you afraid of the grocery store; the safest place,
Lots of police in the parking lot, and security within the store,
But today, the trauma came to affect me internally, with guts and with gore,
I was doing just fine; yes, I was managing quite well,
When the world around me, turned into a living hell,
I entered the store, and the voices were pronounced and stern,
And, from this day I did learn;
I learned that there are good and quite evil; within the same four walls,
Multiple and many; some, just waiting for your rhythmic falls,
And one day they hope, that with their comments and words,
They’ll own you, and make you feel bad; lower than dead birds,
There was a man in the store,
He stood at about five-foot-four,
He was balding, and had a big mouth,
Alike the big words from his mouth, all heading south,
I was new to voices, and I was quite fragile,
I got caught by this man, as I was talking to voices of a mammoth-sized-pile,
He said to me “Go back to the hospital you lunatic”
The words in my ears; pulverized my confidence, and I felt incredibly sick,
I walked away; red in face, and sweating dime-sized-drops,
As my brain misfired, and my stomach did flops,
The pain-train had arrived; and I felt as if I were laying upon the tracks,
The train of bland colour; just dark greys and blacks,
The train, approached the station; and the man in the store, had said more,
As I walked away, he said many more mumbles; and I headed for the door,
I now had him, in my rear-view mirror,
But I wasn’t seeing the world, any clearer,
The walls were distorted, and out of focus at best,
As I watched a man, waiting for cold-cuts; with the word ‘Police’ on his chest,
I was doing nothing wrong, but the voices in my head, still said,
“You better run, you squealing little pig; police will leave you dead”
The words began to swirl, all within my brain,
And up I climbed; into the train,
The walls turned red, and black, and did start to drip,
I felt sick; as if upon a heavily-rocking ship,
I felt like I had been run-over twice, by a truck,
And the train; with me aboard it; did not wish me good luck,
Instead, the symptoms had escalated, to megalithic proportion,
And everything that I saw; was that of distortion,
Until I yelled out loud; at a loaf of bread,
For something that the voices said,
And a little old lady, with a silver walker, and snow-white hair,
Approached me, touched my hand; which gave me a slight scare,
The touch of her hand felt nice; yet I still made a loose fist,
When she asked “son; would you like some help, finishing up your list?”
The woman was kind, and really needs an award,
I think of her plenty; when I’m saddened or bored,
She said many things, on that horrifyingly, wonderful, day,
Every word of it, will with me, forever stay,
She called me handsome; and said she couldn’t believe I didn’t have a wife,
Her compliments and kindness; I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life,
We walked outside, and I lit up a cigarette,
When she asked if one for her; I would let,
I said sure, and we enjoyed a beautiful end, to a terrifying ordeal,
It was the day I met warmth; it was the day that I realized, that stigma is real.

Christopher F.