Twice you've asked me to leave.
This third time, uttered groggy
and forgetful from a hospital bed,
incensed that you're still alive, almost succeeds.
How glad I am you chose the wrong pills!
How glad I am they found you in the forest!
Yet you are more bitter than the taste of morphine
at how you failed at this, your final failure.
Now I see how you squeezed your eyes
harder than God shut your ears. This is not
a judgment but an observation-- I keep repeating this--
I thought the deaf saw more.
Your sainted dad's an alcoholic
and your noble husband beat you--
you never mentioned it. In AA there's a saying,
"Your secrets will kill you." Yours almost did
but you are now exposed, your pale moon
near full behind the flapping borders
of your hospital gown, blue print-on-white,
(thank God!) not rose-tinted black.
A Dying Fall
Blessed are the deaf asleep.
Sleeping, they hear; hearing, they know.
Knowing, they cannot explain
why their music is always in color.
Do not disturb their snoring,
it is their passionate breath.
Do not wake them to this
strange world of silence
But touch their honeyed skin;
hear the descending submarines.
This is your dumpster, beaten by usage,
misshapenly blue, blotched with rust
though resilient as steel, still serviceable enough
to mount on a truck.
Throw in what you can bear,
the broken torso of his vision of you
in clay and wire, the discarded water heater
and the towing chains.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
Throw in your father
who departed for the eternal suburbs
in a fit of gradual senescence;
throw in your golden retriever,
arthritic and blind, who needs a boost
to stand, christened "Sunny"
for his excellent temperament.
Throw in the plastic tarpaulins
that shield what feeds on darkness,
spore and fungi, throw in
the bitter pomegranate,
the purifying hyssop,
the man-shaped mandrake,
the hemlock and the yew,
all wilted keels of earth's
imaginary boat propelled by tears.
Throw in your confidence, your job,
your mother bearing bad news of your birth,
the striving to acquit yourself
persistently more equal than
those spared your handicap.
Throw in the cigarettes that killed your husband
(though you still smoke two packs a day),
throw in the blackened chest
that housed his far-seeing eye.
Throw in your only child,
the empty fuel can begging fire.
Pile it on a camel (one hump for each Testament),
send it into the desert
to empty you of that emptiness
beyond hope and reason.
Imagine you own nothing--
your body is rented, for instance,
your mind borrowed.
Though all your suffering is real,
you are not your suffering;
your losses cannot destroy you
nor your gains restore you.
Gather love's souvenirs
into a necklace of pain;
when you bless the seasnakes unawares
you will know the weight of it--
C.E. Chaffin's first book of poems, Elementary, was published in 1997 by the Mellen Press, available through Amazon.com. He edits the online literary journal, Melic Review, and has been widely published on the web and in print. He lives in Long Beach, CA, with his three daughters, and is presently on disability for psychiatric illness and chronic spinal pain.
Prague lays over its inhabitants in shades of grey. Oppressively close to the surface, some of us duck, others simply walk carefully, our shoulders stooped, trying to avoid the monochrome rainbow at the end of the hesitant rain. Prague rains itself on us, impaled on one hundreds towers, on a thousand immolated golden domes. We pretend not to see it bleeding to the river. We just cross each other in ornate street corners, from behind exquisite palaces. We don't shake heads politely anymore. We are not sure whether they will stay connected if we do.
It is in such times that I remember an especially sad song, Arabic sounds interlaced with Jewish wailing. Wall after wall, turret after turret, I re-visit my homeland. It is there, in that city, which is not Arab, nor Jewish, not entirely modern, nor decidedly antique that I met her.
And the pain was strong.
I wrote, Sally Ann, I wrote:
Shot from the cannon of abuse
as unwise missiles do.
Explosive clouds that mark
your video destination.
pricking with laser markers,
Hitting the target, you
splinter, a spectacle
of fire and of smoke.
The molten ashes,
the cold metallic remnants,
A peace accord
between you and your self.
waste of bottled anger
Life belly up.
The wind is hissing
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
A Hundred Children
Tell me about your sunshine
and the sounds of coffee
and of barefeet pounding the earthen floor
the creaking trees
and the skinned memory of hugs
and you received.
Sit down, yes, here,
the intermittent sobbing
of the shades
slit by your golden face.
Now listen to the hundred children
that are your womb.
I am among them.
Sam Vaknin: I suffer from a few personality disorders. I am the author of "Malignant Self Love - Narcissism Revisited"
Plant legs and arms
the arms that soak in Life
choke the light until the eyes grow tight
and the mind becomes hazy
when that mind projects the Whole Being
without disgust, the cell divides
and unplugs the entire thought
Desire and React
give the fibers a chance at motion
Not in soul In Mine
if you were by my side
by my current holding hand too tight
now watch her painted frozen face
be taken to a secret place
is this contest a challenge
to question SELF control
With the acceptance of humanity
I lost their remarks
and began to feed the sharks that told
I remember when she said I think I'm loaded. I think I'm loaded.
and it was the she moaned this it was the way that it
was sent to me fever and sweat dancing maybe it is Your
a pity on the idea that I have no idea what I am doing
there, there instead of releasing the sweaters Pile on more
labels and sets now now moan and take the sweater off
there are so many corners and a voice will never answer even if
the voice is offered will it ever be given and this could be a
the paint is given when it is said lay the medium on quick
and never look back forget the tongue and tape
certain ills the only wish I wish
Is without perfume the perfume on the
inside of your elbow a fallen leg could be a strategic maneuver
but it wouldn't belong to me
Dottieann Stucko: I am a 22 year old art student from Chicago majoring in painting. I'm also interested in music and writing. Last year I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Some of my influences are Lawrence Ferlinghetti, William S. Burroughs, Egon Schiele, Sonic Youth and Scratch Acid.
The day arced in, thieves of light,
and no one explained themselves.
The differentia was apparent--
It was a soul kiss, a festal way
of seeing. These narcissi, how
How beautiful. Just to notice
things: Diapason of bird
call, thread of babbling
brook. Not to take aim,
Breathing breaks the distance-
my grasp of the evening,
the shape of my blood-
the fall of light.
The window is open
to gulls crying the
it will be dark,
knit with eyes;
an autumnal tangle
Spit. Look in the mirror.
You are the last leper of Saint-Lazare.
You are time slowing down, lonely as falling snow.
Look into these eyes.
Figure you're in there.
Kiss of the waters.
Close your eyes.
Remember running barefoot through the snow.
Relax. God kisses your feet.
The trees get more, your breath explodes
into clouds of vapor that twitch and strive
like animals rejecting sleep.
Tonight you marry the moon.
Your progress is blind, your eyes are closed,
you crash through the underbrush. Your eyes are
You forget to breathe for two full minutes.
Saplings beat at your body like truncheons. You know the truth.
You're on your back, laughing. Blood bubbles in your throat,
the taste of iron, spluttering helplessly, your lips a garish red no
one can see.
Close the scene. Spit.
The sun is the song of medieval girls,
it is hidden behind clouds.
It is luck in the fireplace,
glowing, hammering dulcimer
We kiss her, though she dies.
Dave Benson, NJ USA. 28, soon to be student again. I'd just like to say that mental illness is a way of life...no, seriously...anxiety, with occasionally severe panic...depression that cycles between minor and major...anyway. I've never been comfortable with the idea of being mentally ill, although i know i am. I guess the question is, especially in the arts, where do you draw the line, and why do you feel the need to draw it?
Bodies warm with the still-sweet memory of dreams I roll over towards you -- half asleep -- My reach: tentative and guarded.
In your waking, you somehow perceive the impending threat, roll away, and rise -- never looking back -- leaving me grasping at the empty space that you used to occupy.
I lower my hand, my fingertips tracing the ghost-shape that you've left in the sheets, as I watch you stride away leaving only your fading warmth to soothe me.
~ There will be no lingering.
Skirting around the periphery of one-another, we go about our separate, disentangled existences the illusion of our familiarity threadbare and tenuous, like a transparent cloak of invisibility, as we ride together in silence, our faces peering out on our own, individual landscapes.
I turn my head further towards the glass feigning interest in the nondescript, flavorless scenery, so you won't see the tears and we drive, the thirteen-inch span between us: an infertile, long-dead wasteland that neither one of us has the will or courage to cross.
Then, in a stone-still, breath-holding moment, you reach for me, and I mentally race your hand to my face where I imagine its sensitive, warm caress on my cheek -- with one loving touch -- saying all of the things that we've no words for, and you grin, and grab my breast for a friendly little squeeze.
~ There will be no tenderness.
We play footsie with reality talking about the paths that we've chosen to travel, while we avoid, at all costs, even one truthful word about what brought us here.
We pretend that we're the greatest of friends sharing our triumphs, tribulations, fleeting moments of fame and conquests in love, all the while, acutely aware of when, exactly, we should insert the appropriate smile or congratulatory pat on the back, giving Oscar-worthy, flawless performances with every mouth full of lies that we choke upon.
We choose silence over serious discourse, the echoes of conversations long-dead, loud in our ears, and when the silence becomes unbearable, we veil our distress in laughter each joke ensuring that the last laugh is on us.
~ There will be no communication.
Hour-upon-hour, we voluntarily occupy one-another's space, settling for "something" rather than "nothing", and, you become the visitor that you are attempting to portray, decked out in all of your finest visitor dress, "just so".
You say "excuse me" when we pass too closely, put the seat down, and pick your socks up off the floor. We discuss our jobs, our futures, the weather and your wife, and, when we fuck, you close your eyes.
I'd rather you leave your socks on the floor.
~ There will be no remembering.
Balanced upon the precarious ledge called "suicide" we resist jumping, out of fear, and, also because to do nothing at all still ensures death as an eventuality.
"I'd like to linger when I die", you say in jest, not realizing that the joke's on you.
You're already dying. We both are. The difference is, you just don't know it, yet.
~ There will be no redemption.
Know the rules before you agree to play the game.
~ There will be no refunds.
Poem for February
Ardour seeps From a cracked ventricle, Soaking the frosted ground With it's caustic potion.
And once, the veins Of these pressed petals Swelled with dew, Until their essence was blotted In some candied chapter.
Now the demi-hearted Winter sun washes discordantly Over my seashell Like a frigid lamp;
So flamy through the trees, So harsh a hue against The still, anemic landscape. It tears in my eyes an awful wound.
Something rattles about in the bowl, a pearl.
Absence has not kept us apart.
Love Song for Him (thank You T.S. Thank You)
I finally dumped J Alfred when you first asked to make love to my mind
suddenly, there was something in that nada of my thoughts ... and i found you bending wire into wings strong wings, soft wings. and i almost closed my eyes then.
there was just too much beauty.
you asked me why i look at you, and what word could i entertain? someone drew your face into a photograph that i carry within my heart that only knows your eyes asking to make love to my soul
there's no bloodletting required, im open and absorbing
your dance is potent, setting nietzsche's cows to pasture and opening the windows to midnight. i exhaled the last breath of childhood when you asked to make love to my body
those folds are peppermint to the pasteboard of my woman box opening to you, you hold one of the great mysteries of life in the palm of your hand.
while the women came and went talking of ordinary things,
you were not one of them
Melissa Marino: I was born in Warren, Michigan. I have a BS in biology and biochemistry and am working toward getting my phd in developmental biology. I have been an active writer for the past 7 years, everything from poetry to prose, to non-fiction pieces. I don't think I ever made a decision to write, I just feel that I need to. I am what most people would call a 'self-hater'. I cut, burn, starve, binge, and bleed myself. I suffer from occassional bouts of servere depression, flanked by self injury. Through all my years of hurt, and ‘treatment', writing has always been there to kill the pain.
A black stiletto heel rests against granite the cornerstone on 59th street. Long bent leg reveals her garter belt white stockings under a red mini skirt.
Sequined top, eye catching pledges allegiance lifting Marilyn Monroe off her neck. The breeze refreshing
she blows you away. Across the street the pusher deals from the bottom of the deck.
Suits scramble for the blue train cellular phones stuck in their ears, have your people call mine, buy me some of that IPO.
A necklace of yellow cabs links the avenues, interspersed with black pearl limousines Marilyn puts one on.
A bluesy haze hung over your Birdland. Black & white faces played in your band.
Heads bobbing to musical spacings watching and hearing your sax playing.
Everyone loves Charlie 'Bird' Parker. But Charlie, you found places darker and darker.
Woodsheding all summer made you a king. Man you learned to make that horn sing.
Your flatted fifth changes turned jazz on its head. You were the reed-man you know it was said.
Oh, Cherokee, baby, what luxury, who could forget that night at Savoy?
Your self-medication did so much harm. Poppy was always on your right arm.
Nobody squeezed so many notes in one line. You played yourself out in one-third time.
The Black Dog
Amber waves of grass blowing in warm summer sun rolling over California hillsides brings a song to the breeze. While the grasses appear dying the roots still live. When they drink upon the autumn rains green stems return; things are not always as they seem. While walking through this flowing grass sea I contemplate the cycles coming and going, calm, stormy, dark, and light. A startled covey of quail rises into the sky and the black dog runs through the fields of gold.
Watching her from below. Talking with her now. She seems to be light. She is very white. A real cloud girl, floating through the sky. A real cloud girl, Catching my eye.
There are moons and suns, but she is everywhere. I know she is all right. Yes, and even tonight.
A real cloud girl, floating through the sky. A real cloud girl, catching my eye.
He was thrown out for dueling His learning of fighting She was his love Never became a dove The society spent on guns And the new country begun To live in independence And own language of true defense As life carried forward The new formula of worth But the numbers were a measure Of water's temperate behavior So that his class analysis Was cruel and baseless And even sex and love When shot Brought the mind to stop And thus Karl wrote a story That his theory Had made the world gory So that now a tragic idea Was declared a delusional idea And now poetically said He was one great Red.
Brothers Learn Sociology
A fence post between good friends moved and the judge accepted the insanity defense
The norms of society as learned by hundreds of students were doubted and the musician incorporated the definition in his thoughts of the song
The tune sung that night was accepted and the audience applauded the insane group
life is family brothers are friendly
Peter Timusk: Recovered from schizophrenia. Interests include mathematics, computers, and literature. Lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.
The nurse brought round the medicine trolley. The patients shuffled towards her, all except Tom. No, he had had enough. He hated the pills, all they did was to make him sleepy. He didn't need them. He didn't need to be here. There was nothing wrong with him. He was a prisoner.
He turned sharply, walked briskly down the corridor, and slipped out a side door. He blinked in the sun, then broke into a run, jumped over a hedge and down the farm track. He was free, free. The dark, dead, dreary ward was a memory.
He continued running until he collapsed against a stile, breathless, a broad smile escaping from his lips. A lark soared high in the sky; he followed it with his mind. He noticed a rabbit dart into the undergrowth, its white tail glistening in the sunlight. The tops of the trees swayed in the gentle breeze. All was movement, life. He breathed it all in deeply.
Of course they would come looking for him, but he didn't care, not at this moment, this precious moment.
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.
H.R.H. Princess Diana, R.I.P.
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.
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).
John Exell: Male, aged 51, single, no dependents, born 2am, 16th February 1949, failed architect, successful schizophrenic. Artist, poet, writer, sculptor, green, philosopher, mystic. Retired on state sickness benefit. Lives in outer suburb of London, UK.
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.
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
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
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.
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
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 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.
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 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" )
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.
You must have experienced 'mental illness' (e.g. depression, anxiety disorders, obsessive compulsive disorder, eating disorders, personality disorders, manic depression or bipolar disorder, or schizophrenia).
We accept poems of any topic and style. Send in a batch of 4 to 6 poems. We will only consider one batch of poems per poet per year so please choose your best work.
Your submission must not be previously published in print or online publications. Simultaneous submissions are okay but please let us know.
You are responsible for the originality of the work you submit.
Write a few words to be included as contributor's note.
Please proof read your submissions and check for any typos and grammatical errors.