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There are no bars keeping me in, there is no door without a key in.
All the lights are on without a flicker or dim, my soul free to wander out or in.
And yet I stay frozen to one spot, unable to get past the lock that is not.
I sit and stare at my loves fading smile, trapped in the memory of when I could hold her for a while.
I curse myself and my internal latch, that I cannot get loose from this imaginary catch.
My hands are sore, my eyes are weak, my internal light ever-growing darker and bleak.
The man I once was becoming a ghost in time, locked behind this illusion of mine.
Gone of days when life was a dream to catch, why can I not get past this imaginary latch.
There are no bars, there is no steel, why does my mind command me to kneel?
I have no words, only hate, inside this prison I do create.
I scratch a marking on the wall, to remind me I must obey or face the fall.
And fall I do, further still, into this invisible pit I created by the freedom of my own free will.
The hangman’s noose so appealing,
But today is not my time, I remain for the true love of mine.
No illusionist trick, nor jailers whip, will see me lose my iron like grip.
So I will go on inside my imaginary jail,
And yes, there will be a time that I shall prevail.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.
I can tell you from personal experience regarding mental health that it does get easier, in time you will make it.
I think that is what Dylan was getting at, the below poem, in my opinion was not just about death, but about life as well, don’t just wither away and die.
Never give up.
No more searching inside the well of excuses, The well will always be full, The bucket will always be empty. Plenty, There always is, Plenty of time to waste, Until there isn't. Only hindsight, Forever hindsight, Forever waste. No risks, No trying, Only excuses, Always tomorrow. Comfortable tomorrow, Cozy as a sock, Warmed and woolen wool, Perched comfy, Fat cat comfy, Old lady winter comfy, Dying. Perched on this comfortable not so well and worried wall. Time stalks the blind, Always remembering, Ticking on. Listen close, Hear the tick and tock, Ticking and tocking, Time, Mine, Yours, Ours, Chiming the excuses away, Today. Excuses that line the hindsight wall, In regretful jars, Made forever by forever facing mirrors, Reflected Into the eternal void of, I, wish and had. Through hands and open fingers the heart and life slip back, Back to the stars, The repeating seed, The grain, The ended dust, Where the only three that matter exist; Before, Once, Never, Into the perpetual always yesterday, Now all rear views, And lumps in the throat. Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler