The Ugly Within the Beauty of Madness and Grief

I relate heavily

to the weeping willow

that stands a few feet

beyond my balcony.

Not because we're both warriors,
you see,
but because neither of us
grew from something
as simple as a seed.

We were both shaped
by quieter catastrophes…
by traumatic memories
that ignite the neurons,
wiring the mind
for anxiety,
for PTSD,
for survival mistaken as living.

I experienced my first death
at the ripe age of thirteen,
then two more and counting

before I had the chance
to bloom at twenty-three.

I'm not angry,
though perhaps I should be.

I've learned
that if I allow myself
to steep in this endless rage,
if I remain standing,
toes balanced
on the edge
of a dagger's blade,
then maybe I can endure
the ugliness
that gives shape
to the strange beauty
of madness
and grief.

M.H John