It is winter.
In my breast it is winter too.
Icicles live where once beat my heart.

I do not long for spring,
Winter suits me.
Its coldness is bracing, awakening.
It numbs the pain.

Love caused this pain.
I now stand aloof from love,
What need have I for it.

The ice forms patterns on my window.
Beautiful geometric ordered patterns,
A true mathematical beauty.
What need have I for the false beauty of her eyes,
Her lips.

I lay on my bed to sleep.
No more will I lose myself in dreams.
I sleep the sleep of death,
Stillness, ice, ice, death.

Ice is stillness, solid, unyielding.
Frozen water, frozen tears.

Copyright © 2000 John Exell

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You externalised your pain and suffering,
You talked about it openly,
You hid behind no mask.
That was your cure.
And for that you were loved.

You showed that those who were at the top
Were also weak and frail.
That was your strength.
And for that you were loved.

With your suffering,
You identified with those too who suffered:
The deprived, the lonely, the outcast.
That was your joy.
And for that you were deeply loved.

You changed the world in your life.
You changed the world in your death.
You proved to the world, once again,
That love is the greatest force in the Universe,
Has the greatest magnetism,
Can sway even Kings and Queens,
Can topple the proud,
Without bloodshed,
Only your own.
That was your triumph.
And for that you became great,
A part of History,
Never to be forgotten.

Copyright © 2000 John Exell

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A neighbour often stops me in the street.
He always asks if I have found a job yet.
I always tell him that I suffer from bad nerves and depression,
That I cannot take stress,
That the doctor doesn't want me to work.

He often sees me with a broad smile on my face,
Dashing about somewhere or other.
He is always polite and friendly towards me,
But I'm sure that underneath
He thinks that I am a scrounger, a malingerer, a fraud.

Do I tell him that voices tell me to write and do strange things?
That I see Angels hovering above the Mind Café,
The Community Centre,
And the Mental Health Day Centre.
That I see devils sitting on the roof of the Job Centre,
The Social Security Office and the Town Hall.
That a short while ago I thought I was MichelAngelo;
Last year it was William Blake.
Do I tell him that two winters ago
Things got so bad that I tried to take my own life?
Do I tell him that I suffer from Schizophrenia?

Or is it safer and wiser perhaps to allow him to think bad of me?

Leonardo da Vinci.
(Also known as John Exell).

Copyright © 2000 John Exell

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