Hidden from the burden of conversation, you graze your toe across a rock
-- slice.

Pain, creeping  
wrapping its hot oils up your calf
it hurts more

no one wants to share

who understands?
don't be silly!
you’re on your own now
no one will be calling your name

So desperate

for a box you search
to hide your grief, happiness, and doubts in

some are presented with one
a carved handmade one
with gold outlines
who knows how they got one

the unlucky stumble upon the rich boxes of others
smothering them with inpatient finger prints of hope
but why
why they plead
in their constant prayers

why must they have the ***** leftovers
the cups recycled
used in a previous place for ***** samples

too small even for three people

they clean it and make due
what else can they do

Wait.
that’s what

But. Why?
are they not worthy?
ugly?
already fortunate?

I guess that works

and most are happy with it
see it around them
everybody has a *** cup

but what happens when everyone gets lucky?

You hide Envy?

no ignorant ones

Alone.

begin the day ; a **** taught of features
in need of clean linen,
    unswallowable meds
    and a diaper change
routine ; that'll teach ya !

they ask her the day of the week
   her name
what year it is
   when is your birthday ?
do you feel any pain ?
   do you know where you are ?

flailing in memory
they just turn off the overheads
  and let her settle into her senility
attend to the physical basics
whilst she's suckered into her own storage unit
  operating like a humming fridge
   with its door slight ajar
    and the small hot bulb
     finking on and winking off

                      - perish well 
                       & in comfort Dear

The Idea of you was lust
Now like a unwanted pimple its time for this season of my life to bust.
No trust,
Between us
Because your obsession isn't killing us, it's me.
While you ****** me your looking for your next victim.
Rusting of the metal that melted us as one
I scream to escape while my body remains in its vegetated state
While loved ones hold heated debates on what treatment I should take.
Inpatient or out seems like either route It's no end to the insanity of a strong hold
No goal
Seems attainable
No moments of being free from the chains you keep around me.
The gag between my teeth keeps your control over me.

the lumy screen
x-ray mission
counting ribs
    but courting what's in-between
trying to salvage disease
    from the pardonable cage
use corrective attractors
drag them on the screen
    and mould a mange of the dark spots
humble in an alcove
zoom in on the spot
take out your little skin leafed
pocket book
clean the cough from your throat
    and sprout  'the working words of God'
a congregation of cancer cells
    put in their place
medicine

Twenty classless, eight cigarettes. 
Fighting over the radio at the 
Inpatient Mental Health Facility, 
A broken sense of belonging, 
And a dearth of veggie burgers. 

Listless with his lists, of course. 
Angst from the Anglophile, unable to 
Put a stopper in the pouring, 
Bleeding emotions. 
Open hands 
Stained red, and brown. 
Three breaks a day, scarring his 
Broken knuckles, they paint the walls. 

Code Smoking Gun, 
Code Smoking Green, 
Manic man, loading his shoulders with his 
Father’s burden, too big for Atlas’s arms, 
Or his mother’s shunning palms. 

Three breaks a day, 
Knee, shoulder, hip. 
The coffee’s decaf 
But your calves? Well, 
They’re just sore. 

They dish the brick every 
Other evening. But living, for 
No light, only serves to lessen your 
Love of life and make you 
Light-headed.

Broken beds with rock-solid
Pillows. Three breaks a day to
Remind you of your regression. We
Want you here as much.
Why’re you whining?

Busy doctors bust the doors, thank 
God for the freedom, the 
Fluorescent finish to your odyssey. The 
Flowers and grass greet you in 
Shades of pink and green your 
Greedy eyes hadn’t seen. 
Exhale. Ghost out your grieving.

The world is but an oyster
which we all are forced to inhabit
in a scramble of arms, legs and meaningful dreams.
A disaster in the wake.
A broken-hearted fowl.
A disinterested love interest
with a clasp on the bitter reality of rain clouds and hurricanes.
We lie in the waiting,
tell truth in the rush,
inpatient,
immoral.
We never really understood the world and how it rolls.

It's been a year since my suicide attempt. Right now, I'd be in the ER waiting to find out which inpatient clinic I'd go to. One year. Since, I have escaped from toxic people and shifted from an old self. One year. What do I have to show for it? Emotional outbursts? A nicotine addiction? Abandoning my creativity? A battle with a psychological addiction to psychedelic drugs? What does progress look like? What does it mean to reconstruct yourself? A building torn - that's what I am. A prairie, a forest, which has experienced a wild fire. Beyond recognition, I deface myself - as if to erase myself and destroy the things I like. What does progress look like? Am I getting there? In my view, progress is not always seen by you directly. It is not our job to determine if we make progress, but, by the value of people and situations in our lives, we will have it be seen. To do things for ourselves is wonderful. But, what does progress look like? It looks like making giant leaps forward - and then three steps back. It looks like dipping our toe in the water, and then wanting to dry off. It looks like it's perfect, but actually not. It looks like a broken toy fixed with expired super glue. Who are we to determine progression? It's an obsession of the mind for us to think that progress means we must always be fine - that we must be perfect. If I have a million irrational thoughts in a day, does that make my one totally rational thought insignificant? I think not. If I spend one day totally upbeat, productive, and happy - are my sad feelings any less valid? No. So, progress looks like this: admitting to yourself that sometimes we won't have things together completely. We acknowledge it, think rationally, and move to the next focus. Progress is not total immunization of our quirks, but it is less demonization for how we work. Our brains - they want to help us survive. The brain gets confused among irrational thoughts and can jump and put us in an emotional turmoil jeopardy. But, be kind to yourself. Be kind to the "miswires" in your brain - because it cares for you and wants you to survive. Strive. What does progress look like? I'm not sure if I can see mine - I'm not sure what it totally looks like. But, maybe, look in a mirror. See yourself - the reflection of desire. Aspire to be who you are, judgement free. In a sort of clarity, you can see. Ask yourself:
"What does progress look like?"
It looks a bit like you.

When I was admitted to the hospital 1 month ago in as inpatient, there was a 17 year old girl, lets call her sunshine, (I decided to call her this while telling this story so I would not give away her real name). I was always full of energy when all the patients did groups on self esteem and such, or played cards in the unit lounge. But inside I was dying, to get out of there, and dying to die. Sunshine was there for drug overdose, similar to me. Things she said always brightened my day, made me happy inside and out, she's a sweetheart. We had to do a "check-in" sheet every morning at 9am, after breakfast. It asked us various questions such as, "Rate your mood from 1-10", "Name three positive things that happened yesterday", "What's your goal for today and three ways you can achieve it?". Sunshine always had the same answer for the last question, "Just be". Her ways to achieve it were "Peace, love and good vibes". The staff never liked her answers. She did have her violent days, but she did have a positive impact on everyone around her. I love her so much, I don't know what I'd do if she wasn't at the hospital when I was. When you have nothing left, "Just be"

The instructor said,
    Go home and write
    a page tonight.
    And let that page come out of you—
    Then, it will be true.
I wonder if life could really be that simple?
I am twenty, confused, and clinically depressed
I went to therapy, then to inpatient, and now I’m home
to this house that I’ve known since birth,
Depression is not the only thing I feel, so it is not all of me.
But the path down this road has been long, and dark,
Going up hills and making turns, that got me lost sometimes,
But I’m starting to see the light of day,
Everything happens for a reason they say.
My journey isn’t over yet, but I’ll tell you what I’ve learned:

I’m not easy to understand, but nobody is,
at twenty, my age. But I know I am not  just what
I feel and see and hear. Instead I am also  what
I think, and say, and do. Aren’t we all?
The things that define me, aren’t only in my head.
They can be read, and heard, and seen,
My words spoken out loud, or written down are
The decisions I make, such as letting go, or fighting;
Telling a truth, or a lie;  giving, or taking
I guess having depression doesn’t make me a good or bad person
Despite my disorder, I make ordinary choices.
So will my definition of me be alright,
Even if it means, I’m not always delighted to be here.
But I will be here
Just like you are, instructor.
You might be happy with life---
Yet you have your troubles, just as I have mine.
That’s human.
Perhaps you don’t want to be a part of some sad occasions,
Nor do I often want to be a part of them either.
But we are, and that’s life!
As I learn from my mistakes and hard times,
I guess you learn from yours—
although you’re older—and wiser—
and I have less life experience than you.