"They said to the lame man,
Pick up thy bed and walk,
They said to a subject with mental ills,
sort your head out,
pull yourself together,
if you will.

You are not a pair of threadbare curtains,
of that I'm certain,
You are a person.
So,the sorry being picked up a pen,
a perfect catharsis,
a mechanism of honest escape.

Some folk,
well,
they sink into a bottle to drown the pain within,
Others shoot a mainline,
maybe sit upon a train line.
So where should they begin?
None of the three above,

Used a pen,as a trumpeting swan,
Mental illness, pray begone."
(C) Livvi

It took me quite some time
to realize
that there comes a point
when love
is no longer a good enough excuse
to endure
constant disappointment.

I am dyslexic,
And I can spell:
D-e-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n.
Font wards and backwards.
I can invent new ways,
How it looks,
sounds.
I am dyslexic
And I stumble over the word:
L-I-F-E.
This lyfe's
Syllables I have yet to conquer
Or the ability to make it possible.

Life

                               Lyef

           Liph

                                
                                           Lief

A friend is someone who you can trust
From rough to smooth, thick and thin
Someone who you can share secrets with
but to know they're kept to oneself within.

Loyalty and just being there for one another
when times hit an all time low.
A hand to hold outstretched on a screen
showing me the right path to go.

Above all our friendship is forever
forever and a golden day.
But you know this, my dear Sally Bayan
and now I can almost hear what you're about to say!

By shutting out the noisy world
I can hear the heart chanting
the words of gratitude-
A mantra which reaches every heart

It seems there is some infighting
On this site. I know who started
It, and I want him to please stop.

I had a horrible experience on my
Last site due to this sort of
Stuff. I unknowingly helped to
Contribute to this, as I thought
This person the VICTIM. He,
Apparently, is not.

I'm profoundly sorry
I ever got involved.

Sincerely
Catherine

Death near
don't open the door
forgotten ruptured sky
sees you and I
riches are impossible
in the blinding dust
vision is beyond the horizon
fighting to win
you back
come close to losing all....

Each selective thought
will bring about
pieces .......
that we will think is love
discarding the rest
in street dust
of many tomorrows to come

It has been years since
you left me so long ago
trying to forget
daily life .... that we loved so
this is the last poem
that l will write
of the pain
you brought about


Time schedules
Timbre slows
so very far
in a varied substance
of liquid foam
as death
knocks
don't open the door.....*

By Debbie Brooks