The Practical Freedom of Madness
by Marilyn Braendeholm
Art by Jacek Yerka
I remember the day that I woke,
mad — and I thought I’d
crackle from the heat of it all.
It felt like every mask I’d worn,
was removed. Like sandpaper,
I was an irritant in my own skin.
And I remember layers of myself,
dissolved — such a practical way
and sometimes I fancy myself
a surreal piece of art, like a cat
who’s stealing my seven lives.
Process notes: This was prompted by an image, Prompt 46 (via Magpie Tales), Red Wolf Poems, and it occurred to me that as we sleep — we all go slightly mad.
Marilyn ‘Misky’ Braendeholm lives in the UK surrounded by flowers, grapevines, and always keeps dog biscuits in her pocket for her blind, aging Springer Spaniel. She never buys clothing without pockets. Her work is published by Waterways Journal, Poetry Quarterly, Curio Poetry, Gnarled Oak, and several print anthologies. She blogs at The Chalk Hills Journal.