Putting our Heads Together

Putting our Heads Together
I don't think he sees me

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Robin Williams (or Another Richard Cory)

What was it like to be you, Robin Williams?
Were the unrelenting crashes of ideas,
Like the rising surf to a man tied to the beach,
And being drowned by the voices that eventually consume him?

Were you wracked by the ceaseless pains of labor,
The thoughts full in your distended belly,
Each pressing to be first, each fighting to be first to the light,
Each demanding to be first down the birthing canal of your mind’s eye, born fully formed?

Did your body and spirit cave to the pressures
Of being not a person, not an identity, but a conduit
Of pure expression, pure thought, pure word, pure chaos?
Were you eaten whole by them, your soul the last gift you could offer the ravening horde?

Was it lonely never being alone from your thoughts,
Never being separated from your gift, your curse,
Never having respite from the demons of creativity,
Never being able to fully love, because your love was shredded and fed in bits to those demons?

Do you find heaven a more peaceful place,
Lying in repose, tanning in the unbearable light of God’s being,
Touched with the blessed gift of one thought at a time?
I hope so.

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