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Before I was me

by Helen Wilson

This is not a life if its devoid of existence
always on the outside looking in
sleep, eat, shit, TV and internet
the art of conversation lost by isolation
no spark of brilliance or sharp whit
the questions have stopped and fail to have meaning
no longer searching for answers
wake up still in the same wrong body
scared just to open up
while the memories of a now distant family linger
just memories created by neurons in some dusty part of my brain
faces and voices seem to fade from memory
inner voice saying you never knew the real me
every breath now feels like a punishment
music no longer has meaning, art can only be seen as shades of grey
I would give all I have right now for a feeling
While every second inside that scream:

this is not me
I am not right
I am not who you think you see
I need to transform, evolve come into being

I sit down and write a long overdue letter
Dear Doctor, I have something I need to tell you.........

The Road Not Taken  (1916) 

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.