Elizabeth Harper
David Woodard
Frans Lelieveld
Age
Melissa McHenry
Wednesday, March 01, 2000
Elizabeth Harper
Creation By Clash
I sit in shade,
Overhead loom high canyon walls
Behind me river water falls.
Swamps with cattails - In a desert?!?
I sit timeless in this glade.
Moss, ferns, and even trees
Struggle for growth - water from each spring.
The Great White Throne - of God or the king.
Is now unseen, yet nearby.
Black minerals weep
Over stones in red
Greenness grows as springs seep.
Rocks and river splash,
Green and red, blue and tan, all clash!
Clashes, such beauty create.
Seeing this will satiate
The true hunger for natural, silent beauty.
Whipped Apricots Peaks of Yore
Whipped apricot peaks -
Egg white icing Orange icing
decorated with green trees
Shrubs, bushes
Vermilion flowers, stripped bees
I see them spelling out occasions and names.
Unknown language, seen only in rushes.
Smells sweet.
Apricot, mint, and sage,
Biggest strange cake ever made!
Is the ground below to eat?
Behind, the Navajo sandstone shows its age.
Whipped apricot peaks,
Purple decor.
Some apricot spilled on the floor!
Sugar in my dress,
This does make a mess!
I smile as birds go "chirp chirp" with their beaks.
This cake has been made of yore.
Goodnight My Friend
Goodnight
Sleep tight
Sleep easy and free.
Stay warm and cozy through the night.
Let no clown spy you.
Be gone! Bother no one furthermore!
May nightmares pass by you.
Gently close your eyes, to lightly dream.
May your dreams be of warm safety,
Of laughs and happiness.
Of beauty and of Strength.
Strength you have, to stay or to leave.
Strength to rewrite nightmares,
...If you so desire.
Or banish them completely.
They will go away as burned by fire.
Awaken then, after sleep in warm safety,
Renewed and refreshed.
Laughing from the funny dreams.
Inspired by the rest.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
I sit in shade,
Overhead loom high canyon walls
Behind me river water falls.
Swamps with cattails - In a desert?!?
I sit timeless in this glade.
Moss, ferns, and even trees
Struggle for growth - water from each spring.
The Great White Throne - of God or the king.
Is now unseen, yet nearby.
Black minerals weep
Over stones in red
Greenness grows as springs seep.
Rocks and river splash,
Green and red, blue and tan, all clash!
Clashes, such beauty create.
Seeing this will satiate
The true hunger for natural, silent beauty.
Whipped Apricots Peaks of Yore
Whipped apricot peaks -
Egg white icing Orange icing
decorated with green trees
Shrubs, bushes
Vermilion flowers, stripped bees
I see them spelling out occasions and names.
Unknown language, seen only in rushes.
Smells sweet.
Apricot, mint, and sage,
Biggest strange cake ever made!
Is the ground below to eat?
Behind, the Navajo sandstone shows its age.
Whipped apricot peaks,
Purple decor.
Some apricot spilled on the floor!
Sugar in my dress,
This does make a mess!
I smile as birds go "chirp chirp" with their beaks.
This cake has been made of yore.
Goodnight My Friend
Goodnight
Sleep tight
Sleep easy and free.
Stay warm and cozy through the night.
Let no clown spy you.
Be gone! Bother no one furthermore!
May nightmares pass by you.
Gently close your eyes, to lightly dream.
May your dreams be of warm safety,
Of laughs and happiness.
Of beauty and of Strength.
Strength you have, to stay or to leave.
Strength to rewrite nightmares,
...If you so desire.
Or banish them completely.
They will go away as burned by fire.
Awaken then, after sleep in warm safety,
Renewed and refreshed.
Laughing from the funny dreams.
Inspired by the rest.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
David Woodard
Removing The Mask
From the dawn of memory
I desired, no, needed it
a dream dangling on the sunset of every tomorrow
an eternal moment away
allowing perversion of the goal
in an attempt to attain something similar
I become all things to all people
hiding my soul behind masks
alone in the crowd
craving acceptance yet fearing rejection
a popular personality fraud
eyes back on the prize
guard drops letting others see
earning reward of rejection
run oh run away
back into the cave
project positive image again
damage control with festering wounds
gather courage, try again
success? only its shadow
the illusion is shattered
the heart bleeds once more
forget the ruse
I'm tired of the game
of playing the many parts
free my soul to fly
acceptance starts with me
the rejection comes in large doses
probably always will
but acceptance is finally achieved
if only, I find, from me
no longer living in a mold set
by strangers, family and friends
love ME or hate ME, but know ME
only then can I hope to win
I gaze at last into the eyes
of total and true acceptance
finally free of the fight
the face staring back smiles brightly
a mirror's reflection of ME
Imperfection
Throughout the garden of life
there's beauty at every turn but
even the loveliest rose
carries inconsiderate thorns
to make her bleed who would love it
an imperfection it can not avoid
but when handled with care
and caution caressed
the greatest joy can be gained
from what others would have avoided
Rude Awakening
What the hell is that burning
that set my nose on fire
twist
turn
what's going on
back to sleep
it must be a dream
all just a bad dream
did a far off voice
just say "hit him again with ammonia"
OH MY GOD!!
there's the burning again
eyes pop open
blur of images rushing about
grabbing holding pushing pulling
when did I sit half-way up
who put those needles in my arms
senses flooded by the distinctive smell
of every emergency room
a stench that can overpower anything
even ammonia
by the sounds that surge through my head
of nurses and doctors and paramedics
"at least he's reactive"
"he's breathing again"
"do you know where you are?"
who me
yeah - I'm in hell
Hands forcing my head back
and a tube down my throat
NO!!
I can't take this - PLEASE
I'll gag! - I'll puke!- I'll die!
Please damn it - LISTEN TO ME!
why won't they listen
why can't they see
the straps are pulled tight
racking me to the four corners of existence
we've come so far since the middle ages
ancient torture mixed with high tech
beep, beep, beep, goes the heart monitor
pry bar pulls apart the jaws breaking a tooth
twist
turn
struggle fight
that goddamn thing's NOT going in my mouth
"OK - stick it down his nose"
that's OK
doesn't bother me
this bruising struggle could have been avoided
if you would just have listened in the first place
why doesn't anyone listen
why can't anyone hear
"what did you take?"
everything sounds fuzzy
far away again
I don't know
I can't remember
who mumbled that
fall back asleep
David Woodard: My friends know me as Tigger. I'm a 28 year old (I'll turn 29 on March 18) photographer and digital artist from Texas who just happens to also have a mental disorder known as manic depression. The clinical term for my illness is Bipolar I; Rapid Cycling. I have been fortunate to find a partner who loves me despite the hardships of living with my mood swings and their consequences. I have been married to my wife, Jan, for 10 years. The driving forces in my life are my faith, family, art, and writing. I have described my writing as a voyeuristic voyage into the disordered mind and emotions of a manic depressive. It is my hope that those reading my work either feel hope in the understanding that they are not alone or receive a better understanding of what it feels like to struggle with a mental illness.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
From the dawn of memory
I desired, no, needed it
a dream dangling on the sunset of every tomorrow
an eternal moment away
allowing perversion of the goal
in an attempt to attain something similar
I become all things to all people
hiding my soul behind masks
alone in the crowd
craving acceptance yet fearing rejection
a popular personality fraud
eyes back on the prize
guard drops letting others see
earning reward of rejection
run oh run away
back into the cave
project positive image again
damage control with festering wounds
gather courage, try again
success? only its shadow
the illusion is shattered
the heart bleeds once more
forget the ruse
I'm tired of the game
of playing the many parts
free my soul to fly
acceptance starts with me
the rejection comes in large doses
probably always will
but acceptance is finally achieved
if only, I find, from me
no longer living in a mold set
by strangers, family and friends
love ME or hate ME, but know ME
only then can I hope to win
I gaze at last into the eyes
of total and true acceptance
finally free of the fight
the face staring back smiles brightly
a mirror's reflection of ME
Imperfection
Throughout the garden of life
there's beauty at every turn but
even the loveliest rose
carries inconsiderate thorns
to make her bleed who would love it
an imperfection it can not avoid
but when handled with care
and caution caressed
the greatest joy can be gained
from what others would have avoided
Rude Awakening
What the hell is that burning
that set my nose on fire
twist
turn
what's going on
back to sleep
it must be a dream
all just a bad dream
did a far off voice
just say "hit him again with ammonia"
OH MY GOD!!
there's the burning again
eyes pop open
blur of images rushing about
grabbing holding pushing pulling
when did I sit half-way up
who put those needles in my arms
senses flooded by the distinctive smell
of every emergency room
a stench that can overpower anything
even ammonia
by the sounds that surge through my head
of nurses and doctors and paramedics
"at least he's reactive"
"he's breathing again"
"do you know where you are?"
who me
yeah - I'm in hell
Hands forcing my head back
and a tube down my throat
NO!!
I can't take this - PLEASE
I'll gag! - I'll puke!- I'll die!
Please damn it - LISTEN TO ME!
why won't they listen
why can't they see
the straps are pulled tight
racking me to the four corners of existence
we've come so far since the middle ages
ancient torture mixed with high tech
beep, beep, beep, goes the heart monitor
pry bar pulls apart the jaws breaking a tooth
twist
turn
struggle fight
that goddamn thing's NOT going in my mouth
"OK - stick it down his nose"
that's OK
doesn't bother me
this bruising struggle could have been avoided
if you would just have listened in the first place
why doesn't anyone listen
why can't anyone hear
"what did you take?"
everything sounds fuzzy
far away again
I don't know
I can't remember
who mumbled that
fall back asleep
David Woodard: My friends know me as Tigger. I'm a 28 year old (I'll turn 29 on March 18) photographer and digital artist from Texas who just happens to also have a mental disorder known as manic depression. The clinical term for my illness is Bipolar I; Rapid Cycling. I have been fortunate to find a partner who loves me despite the hardships of living with my mood swings and their consequences. I have been married to my wife, Jan, for 10 years. The driving forces in my life are my faith, family, art, and writing. I have described my writing as a voyeuristic voyage into the disordered mind and emotions of a manic depressive. It is my hope that those reading my work either feel hope in the understanding that they are not alone or receive a better understanding of what it feels like to struggle with a mental illness.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
Frans Lelieveld
Mother Melisana Empathic Universe
From her charitable heart
A sane mother comes to the aid
Intending to cure with a pill
Inside my soul the lilies whine
On the fields of the gray day
For ever reliving an ugly past
Sleeping I weep
It weeps in me
Sleeping I weep
Or is it someone else?
Another weeping
Another sleeping
Another not being
Anyone but him
And if I go further
Can anyone call me back?
Can anyone be my mother?
Can anyone fill the lack?
Iris, the child
She throws her big eyes
In my sinful hands
Twelve cherry eyes
She throws the dice
She throws the dice
Twelve red cherry eyes
Mother of lightning
Are you still steering
The wheel of this life
My only one?
And who receives your mercy?
The killer or the body he leaves?
Cause sometimes the one is both...
The fire inside me
Is it too cold?
From the poison heart
My mad mother jumps to the sky
Pretending to cure with a pill
I'm a tree sometimes
Blossoms falling again
I dream that
This empathic universe
Cries tears of blood
For all souls lost
From the mercury well
The golden calf rises
Like a yellow dragon of revenge
I am writer
Bio-hazard-creator
Earth-mover, grave-digger
Life-fucker, Jesu
I should be
A zero magician
Free from desire
Ready to go
I should be
Chewing gum
Doing nothing
Just me
I should be
Very very careful
With all this
Bottle of gin
Revelation
A lonely wanderer
Listens
To whispers
Trying to understand
Hearing in the fresh
Rustling of springtime leaves
The tree-innocence of
Being mother nature's son
Hearing in the soft
Flow of breathing in and out
The free destiny of
Playing the child in the wind
Hearing unexpectedly
A powerful surge of voices
From forgotten religions
Vanishing into space
Hearing disturbances
Made by people's thoughts trying
To find statement in myriads
Of self-centred fantasies
Hearing the exchange
Of calm and commotion
Sailing together like ships
Meeting in the present
A feeling of
Knocking at the door
A feeling of
Carefully opening
Feeling
A silent wind bringing
Pure insight and great compassion
Disclosing in the idea of
Autumn leaves decomposing
The speaking revelation that
Even God's gold will rot
So I carved for you this rock:
"There is no safe place for a human being
Than in his acceptance of the imperfection
Of this creation and in his willingness
To be part of a certain death"
But the lonely wanderer is lost
In fairy voices in and out
He follows the babbling stream
To an ocean without a doubt...
Word
Word
I lock you in a coffin
Word
I bury you in the depth of the ocean
Word
I'll make you a deal
You may cook until your done for
In the pouring rain outside my door
With this stick
I throw myself
With this stick
I hit myself
With this ink-babbling shit-stick
I bear out heaven and earth
With the faith of a dog
I bite deep into my slavery
Chained by words
Punished by writing
Word
I ram you out of your coffin
Word
I drag you from the bottom of the ocean
Word
Radiant cosmic appeal
You may walk into my life
Through any door any time
With this spade
I dig in the earth
Where I kept my heart
Hidden from the world
With this spade
I compose my life
To grinded bones manure
In honour of words
Word
Have you heard?
I, man, cry out the name of my heart
My heart is no word!
Frans Lelieveld: I go by my own name. I was born in January 26, 1963. I'm a man. I do my internet from the Royal Library in the Hague, Holland. I've been given a mild and not unfriendly kind of schizophrenia since my first big psychosis in 1987. I'm interested in medical and spiritual interpretations and treatments of schizophrenia. I like to discuss the unverified reality changing quality of psychosis.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
From her charitable heart
A sane mother comes to the aid
Intending to cure with a pill
Inside my soul the lilies whine
On the fields of the gray day
For ever reliving an ugly past
Sleeping I weep
It weeps in me
Sleeping I weep
Or is it someone else?
Another weeping
Another sleeping
Another not being
Anyone but him
And if I go further
Can anyone call me back?
Can anyone be my mother?
Can anyone fill the lack?
Iris, the child
She throws her big eyes
In my sinful hands
Twelve cherry eyes
She throws the dice
She throws the dice
Twelve red cherry eyes
Mother of lightning
Are you still steering
The wheel of this life
My only one?
And who receives your mercy?
The killer or the body he leaves?
Cause sometimes the one is both...
The fire inside me
Is it too cold?
From the poison heart
My mad mother jumps to the sky
Pretending to cure with a pill
I'm a tree sometimes
Blossoms falling again
I dream that
This empathic universe
Cries tears of blood
For all souls lost
From the mercury well
The golden calf rises
Like a yellow dragon of revenge
I am writer
Bio-hazard-creator
Earth-mover, grave-digger
Life-fucker, Jesu
I should be
A zero magician
Free from desire
Ready to go
I should be
Chewing gum
Doing nothing
Just me
I should be
Very very careful
With all this
Bottle of gin
Revelation
A lonely wanderer
Listens
To whispers
Trying to understand
Hearing in the fresh
Rustling of springtime leaves
The tree-innocence of
Being mother nature's son
Hearing in the soft
Flow of breathing in and out
The free destiny of
Playing the child in the wind
Hearing unexpectedly
A powerful surge of voices
From forgotten religions
Vanishing into space
Hearing disturbances
Made by people's thoughts trying
To find statement in myriads
Of self-centred fantasies
Hearing the exchange
Of calm and commotion
Sailing together like ships
Meeting in the present
A feeling of
Knocking at the door
A feeling of
Carefully opening
Feeling
A silent wind bringing
Pure insight and great compassion
Disclosing in the idea of
Autumn leaves decomposing
The speaking revelation that
Even God's gold will rot
So I carved for you this rock:
"There is no safe place for a human being
Than in his acceptance of the imperfection
Of this creation and in his willingness
To be part of a certain death"
But the lonely wanderer is lost
In fairy voices in and out
He follows the babbling stream
To an ocean without a doubt...
Word
Word
I lock you in a coffin
Word
I bury you in the depth of the ocean
Word
I'll make you a deal
You may cook until your done for
In the pouring rain outside my door
With this stick
I throw myself
With this stick
I hit myself
With this ink-babbling shit-stick
I bear out heaven and earth
With the faith of a dog
I bite deep into my slavery
Chained by words
Punished by writing
Word
I ram you out of your coffin
Word
I drag you from the bottom of the ocean
Word
Radiant cosmic appeal
You may walk into my life
Through any door any time
With this spade
I dig in the earth
Where I kept my heart
Hidden from the world
With this spade
I compose my life
To grinded bones manure
In honour of words
Word
Have you heard?
I, man, cry out the name of my heart
My heart is no word!
Frans Lelieveld: I go by my own name. I was born in January 26, 1963. I'm a man. I do my internet from the Royal Library in the Hague, Holland. I've been given a mild and not unfriendly kind of schizophrenia since my first big psychosis in 1987. I'm interested in medical and spiritual interpretations and treatments of schizophrenia. I like to discuss the unverified reality changing quality of psychosis.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
Age
The Unknown -- A Dance of the Sin of Life
The protection of insanity keeps the wolves of reality
just barely at bay. I hear their howls behind me,
stalking their prey. Stalking me. Hunted in the hour
of midnight, I flee across this wasteland of raw
hunger and need. I once dwelled in the garden of
fantasy. I danced with the Silent Knight of
Imagination. I spun tales around me that caught me up
in soft feathers of delight, tickling my senses. Then
came the nightmare of surrender; Surrender of myself
to the throes of living. The frost of fear had killed
the garden. No longer was I cradled in the valley of
tenderness. I became just another faceless Unknown. An
Unloved. A forgotten dreamer, left to the blight of
misery. Screaming fields of bloody hate seemed to
overcome me. It washed over my feet, as one, tainting
me with its foulness. So I fled to the safety found in
madness. Now, I will drink my life until I remember
what "life" is. In the ever-shifting shelter of
psychosis I remain. Always dodging my wolves.......
The Hunted
The smiling executioner
in Khrono's playground.
A blood feeder to be sated
with not-so-innocent lives.
He digs them up,
from the scum of chaos.
Throws a mind into a
soulless body
and calls them
The Hunted.
They wander the spaces in-between
hoping to avoid him,
all the while
committing deeds as heinous as his
Torturing.
Killing.
Feeding on the wine of life.
Stuffing themselves with their own kind.
They breathe Hate.
Just as He does.
They are All
without shame.
(a note -- "Khrono" is a German name for "time" )
Seductress
Who are You to entrance me so?
I am almost scared of these intense feelings
You send to all my senses.
Who are You to dance so teasingly
through my thoughts and dreams?
I wonder if You're even conscious
of the web You are weaving.
Who are You, that I fantasize
how deep passion between us would feel ?
How would Your voice sound
when saying my name with desire ?
Who are You to make me feel this way ?
You are a seductress;
You are passionate and intriguing....
Already You have me bound
in Your trappings of soft allusions.
Age: My name is adrienne aka age. 21 female ... hailing from upstate ny. Uhm... i've been diagnosed with PTSD and manic depression with a side dish of "schizophrenic tendencies".
Labels. ::shrugs:: Been dealing with m' "mental problems" for about 7 years now. i write poetry/prose for one reason: so i don't explode from all the noise and confusion in m' head. ::curtseys:: That's all.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
The protection of insanity keeps the wolves of reality
just barely at bay. I hear their howls behind me,
stalking their prey. Stalking me. Hunted in the hour
of midnight, I flee across this wasteland of raw
hunger and need. I once dwelled in the garden of
fantasy. I danced with the Silent Knight of
Imagination. I spun tales around me that caught me up
in soft feathers of delight, tickling my senses. Then
came the nightmare of surrender; Surrender of myself
to the throes of living. The frost of fear had killed
the garden. No longer was I cradled in the valley of
tenderness. I became just another faceless Unknown. An
Unloved. A forgotten dreamer, left to the blight of
misery. Screaming fields of bloody hate seemed to
overcome me. It washed over my feet, as one, tainting
me with its foulness. So I fled to the safety found in
madness. Now, I will drink my life until I remember
what "life" is. In the ever-shifting shelter of
psychosis I remain. Always dodging my wolves.......
The Hunted
The smiling executioner
in Khrono's playground.
A blood feeder to be sated
with not-so-innocent lives.
He digs them up,
from the scum of chaos.
Throws a mind into a
soulless body
and calls them
The Hunted.
They wander the spaces in-between
hoping to avoid him,
all the while
committing deeds as heinous as his
Torturing.
Killing.
Feeding on the wine of life.
Stuffing themselves with their own kind.
They breathe Hate.
Just as He does.
They are All
without shame.
(a note -- "Khrono" is a German name for "time" )
Seductress
Who are You to entrance me so?
I am almost scared of these intense feelings
You send to all my senses.
Who are You to dance so teasingly
through my thoughts and dreams?
I wonder if You're even conscious
of the web You are weaving.
Who are You, that I fantasize
how deep passion between us would feel ?
How would Your voice sound
when saying my name with desire ?
Who are You to make me feel this way ?
You are a seductress;
You are passionate and intriguing....
Already You have me bound
in Your trappings of soft allusions.
Age: My name is adrienne aka age. 21 female ... hailing from upstate ny. Uhm... i've been diagnosed with PTSD and manic depression with a side dish of "schizophrenic tendencies".
Labels. ::shrugs:: Been dealing with m' "mental problems" for about 7 years now. i write poetry/prose for one reason: so i don't explode from all the noise and confusion in m' head. ::curtseys:: That's all.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
Melissa McHenry
Moonspy
a child of the night
I look up to the sky
bathed in moonlight
I sit and spy
Melissa McHenry: I am a 22 year old female who has suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. I have been hospitalized 3 times since July 1999 and that's where I get most of my inspiration.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry
a child of the night
I look up to the sky
bathed in moonlight
I sit and spy
Melissa McHenry: I am a 22 year old female who has suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. I have been hospitalized 3 times since July 1999 and that's where I get most of my inspiration.
Elizabeth Harper David Woodard Frans Lelieveld Age Melissa McHenry