This is possibly the best, certainly the most powerful poem I've ever written. I just want to point out though, that it is NOT BASED ON REAL LIFE! The inspiration came from a few very... interesting months working at a Mental Health Centre in North Birmingham.

Actually the first couple of lines lodged themselves in my mind years ago, and I've tried writing stories / a novel / and other poems based around them, but keeping up that level of writing was beyond me. Then this one just sort of came together...

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Inside a Tormented Mind
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I awoke to the sound of a silent scream from a distant dream,
Voices of the dead echoing through my head.
What had I been, and what had I seen?
What did I do, and who did I do it to?
Feelings of guilt felt as if they were inbuilt,
Like this invisible chain suffocating my brain.

Why this madness? Why this pain?
Why did I feel like I was going insane?
Who were my victims, and was I unjust?
Did I do it for vengeance, or was it for lust?
Were these sins fresh as morning dew, or old as ancient dust?
Discovery would be painful, but find out I must.

I asked the Police, but that didn't work -
They just looked at me as if I was completely berserk.
I looked in the library for a clue or a hint -
There was no ray of enlightenment there, not even a glint.
I tried asking everyone that I called a friend;
They said it was too long since I'd seen my CPN*

They all think I'm mad, that my guilt is illusionary -
They think my mind's gone, my memories delusionary.
But I know the truth, voices in my head told me I have to pay
For the evil I've done, but what evil they won't say.
I just have to go on searching, one day my answer I'll find…
And then they won't think that I'm out of my mind.

I'm on medication now, I think they call it Depot.
The voices have gone away, but the dreams still persist.
Now I think I'm insane, but they think I'm ill…
Their arguments seem persuasive, but sometimes I resist.
This feeling of guilt is too real not to be true,
Isn't it?
I wonder.

I can hear those voices again, screaming, calling me murderer
But of whom? How? Why?
Questions, always questions with no answers.
No wonder I'm losing my mind.

It seems like a hospital, this place that I'm in.
The dreams have now stopped, but now the nightmare begins…
All of this time I've been tormented by a lie -
And the worst of it is, I have no idea why.
They call it paranoia, but I call it affliction -
Now it's becoming something akin to addiction.
It gave my life shape, some meaning at least
Now I'm an outcast, something akin to a beast
Someone like me has no place in civilization,
Doomed to a life of condescension and frustration.
Relying on others, that's just not my style,
Though I have to put up with it for just a while.
Sometime they'll let me go with perhaps a few meds,
It won't be long now as they're desperate for beds.
When this time comes I'll be back in control
And no-one can tell me what to do, not a soul.

I go home tonight after another unproductive day,
It's a lovely bright day on the fifteenth of May.
But my nights are darker than black ever could be -
Due to the things I can almost, but never quite see.
I can hear the screams, but all is not as it seems;
The drugs are trying to fight the insidious dreams.
I haven't been attending the centre as often as I should -
I decide there and then that in the future I would.
But now I watch a fascinating scene unfold -
The image flickers in my head, it cannot get a hold.
Suddenly it disappears, in a blinding flash of light!
It leaves me rather shaken, as you can well imagine it might.
But the vision had ended, giving me one chance to flee;
Escape to the real world, where I now want to be.
But there must be something behind this, this guilt I was feeling -
Something that has to be confronted before I can do any healing.

My weekly meeting with the psychologist lasted an hour
And had gone nowhere for several months.
I began to doubt.
Yet I had the feeling she was on the right lines:
I could feel something, something deep inside me…
waiting to come out.
Waiting for what? I had no idea
And nor, it seemed, did she.
But she kept on trying.
And suddenly one day, when talking about my mother,
Unaccountably
I found myself crying.
The hour had was up, but she didn't give up.
Knowing that finally, after many sessions, finally -
She was onto something.
She probed and she dug, she asked and asked more,
Ever trying to discover
The sum of my feelings.

I hadn't been the most co-operative of patients,
Bottling up my feelings and refusing to answer questions.
But there was about to be a pay-off for her patience:
The truth was about to come flooding out all in one go.

When did your mother die?
It was many years ago.
Did your father die first?
I said that this was so.
Do you have any siblings?
The answer to this was no.
Did your parents want more children?
I told her I didn't know.
How did you mother die?
In a road accident.
How did it happen?
She was catching a bus…
She tripped on the road,
The driver didn't see her.
Where were you at the time?
I was watching TV.
The FA Cup Final.

How do you feel about that?
I didn't want to miss it.
I could have picked her up in the car.
But I didn't want to.
So she had to get the bus.

That wasn't your fault. It was just coincidence.
She died because I wanted to watch the football.
Because that was more important to me than she was.
When she had no-one else.
Dad had died, I was all she had.

You were a good son. She loved you.
And I didn't love her enough.
I killed her.
Oh sweet mercy, I killed her for the sake of a football match.

You didn't kill her.
I killed her.

No, you didn't.
Feelings of grief and guilt overwhelmed you, but you didn't kill her.
How can I ever forgive myself?

You never have. But talking about it is a good start.
When was the last time you watched a football match?

The question flew into me like an aeroplane.
My twin towers of courage and resolve collapsed around me,
and I dissolved into tears.
My answer came after minutes, but it felt more like years:

The FA Cup final in 1983.
The year my mum died.

The next few months were the worst in my life
It seemed I'd never before known the meaning of trouble, or strife.
But my psychologist and CPN helped see me through -
Old friends lost presumed forgotten gave their support too.
I couldn't forget my guilt, or entirely get over my pain;
But I knew where I'd been and couldn't go there again.

I'm still on medication, still seeing my Quack,
But I'm travelling in the right direction and I'm not turning back.
Life is a journey, and I feel I'm finally on the road…
Finally facing my fears, unburdening my load.
No more voices and dreams, I've finally awoken:
Look out world, for my chains have been broken.

* CPN = Community Psychiatric Nurse