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A young woman told me recently that her schizophrenia is a mixed blessing.
She sits inside the waiting room - her head inside her hands
Like she was praying to her tennis shoes - for somewhere soft to land.
And it looked like she'd been crying - her sweater smelled like rain
She rose to speak but her legs were weak so she sat down on the bed again.
She said "The angels sing to me - they whisper in my ear ..
They're racked with indecision - but they insist I can't stay here.
So let me go home - go home - go home.
Let me go home - go home - let me go home."
"I appreciate the steps you take to unburdon those like me.
From the disembodied pantomime - that keeps me company.
My sickness is my garden - it's where I long to be
My ghosts and I could not survive within the walls of your chemistry.
My inner state does not translate within this gilded cage.
I cried out loud for Jesus but his line remains engaged.
So let me go home - go home - go home.
Let me go home - go home - let me go home."
And they say " Fly little Dreambird fly - don't leave us here to die ...
Suffocated by the smoke in your mind's eye ...
These well-meaning folk prescribe."
My angels they grow lonely - when your void invades my veins.
Their smiles replace by the vacuum of space
Until I'm left on my own again.
Your kindness means the world to me
More than I care to say.
But against my better judgement I've decided I can't stay.
So let me go home - go home - go home.
Let me go home - go home - let me go home." .
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