This is version 2. Much more complete I think. More of a confessionary piece between the narrator and her shrink.
he world is so much clearer
without the dark brown glasses
of the medicine bottles. I can see
The little people dancing in the margins of the notes;
playing with the letters I write in haste
with bottle brown glasses perched on my nose.
Khaki light shining through them washes away the sharpness of words
that cut you when I talk, flinging them carelessly
with the loss of the filter between my mouth and my mind.
Little rainbow of pills lined up one after the next
blur the lines between your reality and mine
where I can see the the colors around your head,
trailing your fingers, and showing truth when all you speak is
is lies of how all I see is misfires and disconnection in my brain.
You don't see the faeries, the lines that connect us,
and the energy that flows in river rapids through the earth.
To you, I confide that sometimes I forget my medicine (accidently on purpose)
fooling everyone but me with brilliant smiles and playacting normality
to remember the colors, the light, and all the little people who keep me company.
Because seeing the world in neutral shades masquerading
as colors to populate the world you made
leaves me empty as the bottles lined up in battallions
along the sink where I bid them adieu to follow the light,
becoming the one with the little people dancing in the margins.
