I write to heed my mad suffering
And duly thus wisely weathering
A dark cloud that does shroud me
Wreaking havoc with my sanity,
But my confusions and delusions
Can become character creations
In the novel that I am so writing
About criminals in drug dealing.
Even though I am insanely ill
I am gently humane and soft,
But my poems can be a chill
Of which I hold greatly aloft.
I still hear voices though well
But I ignore them I hereby tell.
Copyright Andrew Stevenson 30/07/2024
Thank you. Love love, Andrew.
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