Scott Holstad: Three poems

Anticipation

it's not the preparation,
the paranoia, the anticipation,
the building of the arsenal,
that gets to you,
cause when you're
Bipolar,
you
know
they're coming for you;
rather it's the sheer
out and out
boredom,
not knowing when or how,
worrying about being
ill prepared,
will you be able to draw
fast enough to take some
of 'em with you - that
sort of thing.

I've wanted to die for a
long time, and one day,
I'm going out like a
Texas lightening storm -
big, bold, beautiful,
deadly, dead, and
done with.

Blood

Blood
is dripping -
no,
running
slipping
sliding
down my arm
right now.

Self-inflicted harm
they call it; self
mutilation. Even
with the drugs.

I'm supposed to be
better, or at least on
the fast track. My
wife can't even stand
to look at my arm.

When I cut myself,
I feel white heat,
release of energy,
lightness over-
coming the constant
darkness surrounding
me. My doctor tells
me it's simply
endorphin release.
So be it. It works.
The problem?
More addictive than
Xanax or Klonopin.
Leaves scars.
People ask questions.

So,
where do I go from here?
The path out of hell is marked
by the bodies of the well-
intentioned. So what saves
us?

Understanding,
perhaps,
diligence,
staying the course,
the meds. Still, I
rely - this I know -
on the kisses of hell
surrounding me
to comfort and
protect me,
even as the
blood flows.

Another Failure

A quick awakening,
Tubes everywhere,
In my hand, up my
Nose, a forest of
Tubes, and where
Am I - another
Hospital. I drift
Back and several
Days later am fit
To talk to the doctor.
He wants to know if
I still harbor suicidal
Thoughts. I lie and
They take me off
Suicide watch. I get
My belt and shoes
Back. They're
Upset that I drank and
Took two bottles of
Pills. I tell them I
Didn't drink to take
The pills; I did it to
Slit my wrists, and
Indeed there are a
Couple of small cuts
On one - I evidently
Didn't have the balls
To go all out there.
Why
Can't I die?
Will
You do me a huge
Favor and
Kill
Me
Please?