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Sharde' Fultz Mar 2016
The infamous "C" word
I'm actually ambivalent about hearing Cancer referred to in that way
Cause yes its ugly, yes, its terrible
But its something we need to say
We need people to hear that word
And feel the fear, the sadness, the Disgust.  the anger
Let that word settle in the mind and every letter metastisize until it creates a giant mass in this culture
Let it grow so large that it can't be avoided
Let it push aside all the worlds organs and make room for itself until The pain is unbearable!
Let our communities cough cough cough
COUGH it out
And cough it up
Until pharmacies and hospitals run out of tissues
Until its reached the hearts of politicians
Go on. Don't be afraid to say cancer...
And while you're at it don't forget me.
I don't care about my name
But don't forget the faces you DONT see
That's the adolescent and young adult cancer bunch, I know you probably haven't heard much about us.
But what a pleasure it would be!
To awake one morning and have left it all behind.
To not have it's lingering aches and pains
Forever Burdening my body and my mind?

See it doesn't make sense when WE hurt.
So I'm a part of yet another minority.
One with faaar less research...
And far MORE misdiagnosis
We're young and healthy
So a sudden cough
is eeeasily tuberculosis

Or the flu,
Or a headache,
So OUR cancers goes unnoticed.

But even later down the line
When we've found it in our lungs.
Or spine. Or bones because we young adults are KNOWN to get the RAREST kind.

Post-having found it in our blood
Or lurking throughout our tissues
We're once again faced with another haughty list of damning issues.

don't get me wrong cancer is the worst no matter what your age may be.
To see our grandparents have to suffer?
Or an innocent baby with this disease?!
No.
it's never easy on the eyes and even harder on the heart
But THIS poem...
This poem. just for once.
is for a special part.
For this club no one wants to be part of.
This group coalesced with every color and faith but all sharing the same needs...donning the same scars...
Facing questions without answers
Don't you dare have the audacity to be afraid to say, "Cancer"
I say these words for some of my dearest friends,
The Living and the MANY deceased-
For THEY
have shaaared in my unique. griefs!
THEY have encountered these micro. organic. thieves.
That steal our TIME!
Precious, formative, years of our lives.
That we can never get back!
Babies don't have to worry about that.
Our grandparents and elders don't either, these are just the facts, people.
We have fragments of our fragile lives that surgeries can't suture
Time that should be spent in school.
Or pursuing our dreams.
But instead forcing us to think 15 years into our future
Wondering how we'll tell our husband's and wives that we can't have children
that we can biologically call "mine"
It's a time where we haven't even
thought about those things.
just getting to know who we are as individuals, beings.
And finally coming to grips with being in our own skin!
Kids?!
Are you kiddin'?!
Pun intended.
But seriously, there's nothing "punny" about feeling as though your life has ended.

Like a semi truck hit you at full speed and your entire world is left scattered across life's highway.
You're trying to pick up the shards of you left scattered acrros the pavement
As your friends drive by with degrees and families And you're still going through Chemo treatment.
And or -radiation
And or- a bone marrow transplant
or -reconstructive surgery because your ******* were removed.
About a handful of med students were among the first to see my *****.
So don't be afraid to say cancer.
And don't even let me begin on the financial grievances that will follow us, my friend.
Because we're the least likely to have insurance for this thing going in.
And when your universe is in a tailspin and its chemotherapy or die you aren't thinking about the quadruple digits that will soon be applied.
Because unfortunately, you later realize American medicine and pharmacies just as all other industries, thrives off demand and supply.
cancer diagnosis is like being tossed in the land of oz but the yellow brick road is paved with bills.
I prayed to God over my heart like tin man
So I could still show compassion for a friend
Like lion I sought courage because day by day cancer made me feel so small, defenseless and helpless
The depression I faced regularly wreaked havoc on my mind
And if  scarecrow only knew about Chemo brain!;
--his memory's probably better than mine.

But like Dorothy,
all I wanted was  HOME.
More accurately all I wanted was what I once knew as normal.
Before I lost all my hair.
Before the steroids changed my face.
Before a couple weeks in the hospital destroyed 15 years of barre work and master classes
I wanted so desperately for the old me back.
But I later learned that that girl was just a memory
I'm a different person now
And during this experience I've grown from girl to woman
And have adopted this new normal
That embraces EVERY moment
That experiences time outside of the conditions conditioned by this world
And the parameters of the classic, outdated, Irrational American Dream.
And what seems to be this incessant, false, idealistic, actualization of what it means
I mean
They ask you what you want to be
Before you can even read!
So we're so bent on the future that when our plans are sent off track we beat ourselves until will bleed

Having watered, nurtured, and cultivated.the white picket  seed
And forgetting
There's no template set in place to affirm whether you have achieved.

So don't be afraid to say cancer
Cause it reminds me of what I've learned
I've witnessed miracles first-hand that a scalpel could never know
I love!
And I love hard
And from a place of deep, sincere, empathy
For my fellow man no matter how great or small his burdens be
After what I've gone through my faith outweighs my fear
In fact, I'm fearless!
I'm indestructible
I'm a pro at sweat and tears!
And It didn't take cancer to make me realize these things
I certainly would have been perfectly fine. without it
This wasn't given to me as a punishment.
But allowed to happen as a testament
And now I stand here before you
With a raggedy lung
And A quarter of my intestines

For Dawn, for Jordan, for Lili, Bill, for Merideth, for Carly, for Taylor, Delaney, for Meghan...
For Katy, for Beth, for Eugenio
And for Jen...
I stand here today for the 72000 Adolescents and young adults diagnosed with cancer year on end.

To give a voice to those of us that are too scarred to speak
A voice to those of us that are no longer here to speak.
and a voice to those of us that are  so happy that they can finally start to see a life after cancer that they don't ever want to speak of it again.

I'm here for all the silent warriors
All those that have *****-stained chain mail, cancer cells dripping from the tips of their swords.
With chemo pumping though their veins and radiation burning through their breast plates--whose shields don ribbons and middle fingers, and crosses and curse words!
and I'm begging YOU,
OOOH you lucky few that have not the pleasure to take on this heavy, honorable, garb.
That when you're raising money.
When you're saying your prayers.
When you're deciding how you're going to make some sort of difference in this insane and tragic world.
Don't be afraid to say cancer.
Don't forget about us.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i.

my writing is truly one thing, my life another - not
that's a statement clouded in excuses and guilt:
just the claustrophobic macabre -
and so it happens, that every few days i reach
the limit with wrestling the Minotaur -
the time comes when the liver k.o.s the brain
and the brain then starts punching the liver -
it usually stars in the afternoon, e.g. yesterday,
at 3 in the afternoon, a burrowed sense of guilt
comes over, cigarettes are rolled and chain-smoked...
a promise of not painting the front of
the house is the overpowering weight on the heart -
as is an ably bodied father: who, i might
as the source of my writing capacity: the silence -
but the day flows through... the excess nicotine
adds to the shakes, the detox period begins
with a big meal: chinese pork belly in five spice
and other additives, peppers, spring onions
until a thick goo sauce is cooked slowly to thicken...
served with 'it's called egg fly lice, you plick!'
(Uncle Benny, lethal weapon 4) -
the meal is ate as if a ****** ****** - this is
really the point of critically approaching the
concentrated detox - binge of television,
drinking orange squash and smoking -
playing some stupid video game between watching
an even worse movie - before the saga of
x files begins... at 5 a.m. with the most annoying
feline opera by the most annoying ginger cat
begins... the shades are drawn and the hours between
5 a.m. are spent in a quasi somatic state -
the pain in the brain is too strong to allow you
a kipper without the sedative being dragged from
the body: taking sleeping is avoided -
the blinds in the room don't have blackout plastic,
by 6 a.m. a t-shirt is rolled up and put against
the eyes, the eyes adjust to the light until 7 a.m.,
the body gets up and goes downstairs for more
orange squash, but this time breakfast is stomached,
yesterday's leftover rice, fresh eggs scrambled
and mixed with spring onion -
                                                     cigarette, and a daytime
news channel - Victoria Derbyshire -
the main topic of concerns? only 12% of Paraolympic
Rio tickets have been sold, a charity having raised
about £25,000 wants to sponsor Rio's children
to join in the fun... housing shortages in England,
Redbridge council buying social housing in
Canterbury (once a military base) - 7 people living
in one room (the Romanian standard is
14... you have to remember night shifts) -
oh i seen houses like that, i remember one Jew renting
out his house to 20 / 30 Poles before the Union
expanded... paid of his mortgage... no new reality
here for me... the major misdiagnosis of heart attacks
in women on the N.H.S.: a woman ate a curry,
thought it was only a heartburn... boom, two days
later drops in agony... in between the real
results of the detox... sitting...
not ******* out whiskey yellow ***** when there
are barely any toxins in the body... diarrhoea...
up to about 8 times on the toilet - more orange squash,
more cigarettes... then onto the piece the resistance...
the x files... which last up to about the twilight zone
hour of having reached the 24 hour mark of being
awake... one last **** and then shower, and
then doing the laundry (on a sunny day like this,
it would be a shame not to)...
                                                   at noon
tinned mackerel in sunflower oil... brown bread,
all the oil drank... but by the twilight zone hour
a realisation: ****! my headphones are broken!
i've been walking around these streets with those
very depressing sounds of vrroom vrroom...
i know how the old complain about the youth
and their headphones... yes, but you probably
grew with about 10 cars per hour passing your
house back in the day... and too the birds could
be beautiful, and the sound of children's games
and golden laughter... but all the other sounds...
so off to the shop for a very respectable £1.50 pair...
and then the moment when all the sights
on the streets are no longer synchronised with
what i'm hearing, my eyes sharpen and i dance
past the cars and people never bothering to press
the crossing lights on streets: ease the traffic,
ease the traffic... then into the supermarket and
the detox ends... i can go back to sleeping a decent
night... a bottle of Stella... the only thing sexier
on a hot summer's day on the street... good old,
good cold Stella Artois...
then up to another shop for two more beers and
tobacco...
                        after that? magic...
as the title suggests: on a park bench with Ernie -
something more grand than Beckett's waiting
for Godot
... i.e. something resembling a scene from
Patriarch's Ponds, an encounter with
Mikhail Alexandrovich Berlioz (editor of a highbrow
literary magazine, abbreviated MASSOLIT)
and a young poet Ivan Nikolayich Poniryov -
a few clues to the less knowledgeable parties:
Behemoth ***** and chess, a book that makes
sense of the world interrupted by Herr Woland's
wonderful delights (among many), such
as the notable pandemonium at Ivan Savelyevich
Varenukha's Variety Theatre -
yes very much akin to Hector B.'s:
symphonie fantastique: dream of a witches' sabbath.

ii.

sincerest apologies... the sedative hasn't been bought
yet, and a patient father's invoice for work
done on the construction must be written in tangible
English - in ref. to the uttermost sincerity -
Polski nadal w mej duszy dudni,
                            taki ogrom organów i
                                         bębnów twki -
           że strach pomyślec - czy to wir zamkniętej
historii ludu: czy poczatek gorszych prwad o świecie?
   bo co o zamkniętej historii (skrawku) ludu?
      to przeciez moj dziad'ek w Partii uslugi dawal!
      a kraj podziekowal - i co Prawda to Walesa
   na Florydzie z lwa w zlota rybke sie zamienil.
   (comp. diacritic
                                                       ­                                 pending)

iii.

as i knew, i should have finished this poem on
the principle of ensō - all in one piece -
thus i would have staged what happened on the bench
with Ernest -
                        but after walking to the supermarket
minding my own business and the jokes ensued
about how no one notices, how they know my name
as it's their mascot -
                                   after walking into a world
i found chaos; indeed if i wrote the poem on principle
of ensō, i would have included the phantasmagorical
details of something so simple you could almost cry at it...
the simplicity of it, the fluidity of almost 2 hours
spent in conversation... about what? i'm not telling,
and how was it spoken? i'm not telling either -
let's just they laughed at Ernest's bike, because
it was proper oldie...
                                     i mean, i won't mention the odd
details, but the essence? forget it man!
after writing my father's invoice, and how cut money
on the construction site, blame it Romanians but only
have themselves to blame with their model
of profiteering and that ****** fetish they have
Che's socialism of guerrilla warfare...
                            and the comments in the supermarket,
it just stuck with me about Ernie's bike,
nothing in comparison to the Tour de France's racers
doing up to 50kmh...
                                      it just made me happy to make
a clean bed... and prevent 36 hours awake threshold
glitches of abstraction: black strings and random
square objects popping out of nothing with me in a
variation of nervous startles... Ernest's bike?
an antique, a 1950s Raleigh...
- hard leather seat beneath that modern overcoat?
- yes; no one would even take it if i left it
  outside a shop, they'd probably sell it for parts.
- well, unless someone is smart enough to notice
  a vintage, and tries to restore it,
  buy the vintage green paint and cover the rusty bits.
oh **** it, i can't keep my own company to suit
being happy by saying: ooh, doesn't know a joke,
the happiest he felt after walking out with a stone heart
was making a bed... but to be honest?
psst... i haven't made it in over a month... last night i
was getting cold-heat shivers in the idea of it being *****
enough though i shower everyday... ok, every other day
sometimes, my socks have holes in them, and my
shoes are ripped.
but there's more to this... the bicycle is a pun
of a Heidegger maxim: man is born as many men...
but dies as a single man... imagine how many
influences are entombed in us, the education reformers
to begin with, motherhood tips, cot deaths...
but we die as individual men... so when Ernest said
about the bicycle being only worth spare parts,
i said what Heidegger meant: but i'd take the whole thing
as one.
- how many gears?
- three at the back, one at the front; you see this thing?
- the long tube beneath the seat?
- yeah, when charged it would power up the front
   and back lights.
- oh, i'm used to seeing that thingy-madgit that you'd
   press against the front tire and the principle would be
   the same.
- a dynamo.
- yeah, a dynamo, forgot the name of it.
it started so innocently, i just sat on the bench with my
earphones and two beers and started rolling a cigarette.
- may i invade the bench?
                                               (earphones out of the ears)
- sure.
                and we just sat there, i asking if he minded me
smoking.
- i used to, loved it, esp. after dinner, gave it up 15 years ago.
  then conversations about dogs, family,
                                         and children's games,
          i said
- i'm finding it hard to find people of my generation with
even friendly dynamic of the body: eye contact is gone!
- it's all the fidgeting on those ****** tablets and phones,
when we were kids we used to play marbles,
conkers, hopscotch, so many...
- and we used to draw a racing maze, fill bottle caps
with plasticine and flick them through the maze
(i can't remember if we threw dice to see how many
moves we could make).
  by the time we started talking about the dogs we liked,
and compared them to the dog walkers passing us
   we already forgot who died today: it was Gene Wilder...
the world is mourning him, and we sat there
and the best i could come up with was Richard Pryor.
- dumb animal luck...
- you know how i managed to train my dog to run
  around the park, but come back to me? i used a whistle
  to get the dog to come back and i'd give it a treat.
  until it got the hang of it, i sometimes wouldn't give it
  a treat... other times i would, the point being was
  to teach it both obedience when nothing was given
  and double obedience when something was.
- ever heard of Pavlov? he basically did the same thing,
  but your experiment had coordinates, it was three-dimensional,
  Pavlov's was just two-dimensional, instead of a whistle
  he used a bell... just to stimulate two senses
  as coordinated, the sound of a bell created saliva
  in the dog's mouth, poor dog received treats
  but in the end Pavlov put him in a car with closed
  windows in the middle of summer outside
  of Parliament square; obviously the dog died.
- German shepherd though... i had a friend, naturally
  obedient.
- could walk a German shepherd through Manhattan
  without a leash.
- exactly, not even half a metre away, and when the
  master stops, the dog stops.
(i started thinking, what a great way to invert theology,
in this way from dogs to gods.)
well... i guess there was more, but if i write more
about it, when i'll reflect upon this chance meeting of
complete strangers as more insightful than it
already was...
                         he managed to climb back on his bike
with a slight problem after his hip-replacement
operation... at 74 such things break... and he rode off
and i sat there trying to think about what the hell
i was thinking after watching the x files to find
something insightful...
                                        well, i got one thing,
i mentioned it before... i could never have believed
that adults created the most nightmarish version
of hide (negate) & seek (doubt) -
                   i thought it was just as bad as
  truth & dare with religion - with that motto:
          the Koran: this is the truth, and the only truth...
so truth or dare? i dare you to deny it!
                    can i just doubt it? you know, not be
a definite unbeliever, but an indefinite quasi-believer?
well doubt in the stated quasi-believer is wavering,
isn't it? the two of the most beautiful games of
innocence, morphed into these gargantuan abominations.
Cassis Myrtille Nov 2014
mother problems
chicken pox
asked my aunt
she replied
shower my mother with love and care
after many tries
chicken pox
appointment to the end
of chicken pox
sent my mother a message that she wasn’t okay
drowsy drowsy
medicines
drowsy
shouts and screams
a clueless father
a I-dont-give-two-*******-***** sister
exams over
results out
failed my favourite subject
HOW DID I FAIL LITERATURE
chicken pox doctor
misdiagnosis
then gave me wrong number of weeks to rest
choreography for bollywood
tamil folk
parents were showering ill concealed parental
concern
went to support
ran ran ran
confused and nervous
of the entire world hating me
i ran. ran. i ******* ran
wash the dishes
cooked **** - got scolded for not cooking
extremely ***-y father
why the ******* hell did that happen
cooked
messed up dishes
ate dinner outside
whole family sick
syf prac horrendous
out of breath
trying to run
dinner outside everyday
people who didnt listen
people who didnt care about the dance
time limit
one week before kanal
havent finished choreography
CHICKEN ****** POX
came back to school
parents being ***
whole family down with chicken pox
mother working her *** off
she doesnt want any help
dancing dancing dancing  
mother’s talk about me trying to get away from dance
raffles diploma
performance
november performance
i couldnt dance
kicked out ruthlessly
kanal
five minutes before
a message no more such activities next year
marche dinner
screamed and screamed
out of breath
******* hole in my throat
ran ran ran ran ran
away from idiosyncrasies
raffles diploma
career choices
out of money
where did all the money go
where did all the money go
goals
fashion designer
parents : banker, scientist
work backwards from the goal
dance i want to dance
outings
2 days before
go on to khan academy
father only listens to himself
crushed bones
crushed ribcages
i cant breathe
still running
Morgan May 2013
It was as if the world was spinning spirals around me that got smaller and smaller, and more and more distant with every whirl until it was just a spec floating before me and I was nothing but an observer. I was no longer dancing circles in the center of it all, just to keep up. I was no longer a part of it. It’s like… I don’t know have you ever said a word so many times in a row that it stopped sounding like the thing you were describing, and instead started to sound like this separate alien entity? “Crayon, craaayon, crayooon, crayonnn” I used to do it all of the time when I was little… just repeat things until they weren’t even things! Or, when you stare at yourself in the mirror for so long that you start to question who or what is actually looking back at you… and you reach out and touch the glass and then you touch your face, just to believe it. Just to make it real. I felt my heart breaking inside of me, and then all of a sudden… nothing. I was dizzy for a moment; I felt the beginning of a headache let in but then… silence, silence of mind, silence of physicality. All was cut off. I was so numb. So separated. So tragically indifferent. It only felt like a moment’s time that I had sort of escaped my body, but when I finally came back... back to feeling… back to myself, the sun had gone down and I was alone in my tiny flat in London with the door locked, and a dresser lodged under the handle. All of the lights were off, and I was sweating. They say that by the time the police got there, twenty seven people were reported missing, and by the time they cleared my flat, twenty six body bags were sent away… Orange, black, orange, black, white, white, white. Bread. Bricks. Bars. Bolts. Locks. Keys. Psychiatrists… twice a day every day, “What do you remember from the night of the murders?” , “Why did you do it?” Some of them got so emotional, the men in blue escorted them out & I never saw them again. For the first couple of months I had a different psych every other day. But I’ve had the same lady for about eight years now and she hasn’t got a single thing outta me. Mostly because there’s nothing there. Have I thought about making up a memory and a motive? Sure. But, what if by some beautiful twist of fate, it wasn’t me. What if I was framed? What if I was drugged and the schizophrenia is just a misdiagnosis based on an event that had very little to do with me… I mean, I was the twenty seventh missing person… what if there were twenty eight of us in that room and the guy who offed those twenty six victims left me to cover his tracks? I think about it all of the time. Twenty four hours a day, for the past ten years. But I’m here. Here for life. “Most notorious serial killer in four decades.” I hear it every day. My name, and my face plastered all over weird, low rent books twisted teenagers dance rituals around or whatever. Me. The schizophrenic, ******, sociopath murderer. I was a normal kid. Went on dates at local coffee houses. Sang along to ****** rap songs in the back of my best friend’s car. Took beach vacations every summer. But now, now I had twenty six lives I made myself responsible for… and I haven’t had an episode since. Makes you question, ya know. Question everything. This life. These facts we learn and know to be true, the surroundings that we perceive to be reality… all of it, does it even exist? Do I even exist? Honestly, I think I’m dreaming. I’ve been dreaming for a while now. I just can’t figure out exactly how to wake up.
Sharde' Fultz Apr 2016
The infamous "C" word
I'm actually ambivalent about hearing Cancer referred to in that way
Cause yes its ugly, yes, its terrible
But its something we need to say
We need people to hear that word
And feel the fear, the sadness, the Disgust.  the anger
Let that word settle in the mind and every letter metastesize until it creates a giant mass in this culture 
Let it grow so large that it can't be avoided
Let it push aside all the worlds organs and make room for itself until The pain is unbearable!
Let our communities cough cough cough
COUGH it out
And cough it up
Until pharmacies and hospitals run out of tissues
Until its reached the hearts of politicians

Go on!  Don't be afraid to say cancer...
And while you're at it don't forget me.
I don't care about my name
But don't forget the faces you DON'T see
That's the adolescent and young adult cancer bunch, I know you probably haven't heard much about us.
But what a pleasure it would be!
To awake one morning and have left it all behind.
To not have it's lingering aches and pains
Forever Burdening our bodies and minds?

See it doesn't make sense when WE hurt.
So I'm a part of yet another minority.
One with faaar less research...
And far MORE misdiagnosis
We're young and healthy 
So a sudden cough
is eeeasily tuberculosis

Or the flu,
Or a headache,
So OUR cancers goes unnoticed.

But even later down the line
When we've found it in our lungs.
Or spine. Or bones because we young adults are KNOWN to get the RAREST kind.

Post-having found it in our blood
Or lurking throughout our tissues
We're once again faced with another haughty list of damning issues.

don't get me wrong cancer is the worst no matter what your age may be.
To see our grandparents have to suffer?
Or an innocent baby with this disease?!
No.
it's never easy on the eyes and even harder on the heart
But THIS poem...
This poem. just for once.
is for a special part.
For this club no one wants to be part of.
This group coalesced with every color and faith but all sharing the same needs...donning the same scars...
Facing questions without answers

Don't you dare have the audacity to be afraid to say, "Cancer"

I say these words for some of my dearest friends,
The Living and the MANY deceased-
For THEY
have shaaared in my unique. griefs!
THEY have encountered these micro. organic. thieves.
That steal our TIME!
Precious, formative, years of our lives. 
That we can never get back!
Babies don't have to worry about that.
Our grandparents and elders don't either, these are just the facts, people.
We have fragments of our fragile lives that surgeries can't suture
Time that should be spent in school.
Or pursuing our dreams.
But instead forcing us to think 15 years into our futures
Wondering how we'll tell our husband's and wives that we can't have children
we can biologically call "mine"?

Even still.

don't be afraid to say cancer.
Because it forces me to remember what I've learned.
I've witnessed miracles first-hand that a scalpel could never know
I love!
And I love hard
And from a place of deep, sincere, empathy
For my fellow man no matter how great or small his burdens be
After what I've gone through my faith outweighs my fear
In fact, I'm fearless!
I'm indestructible
I'm a pro at sweat and tears!
And now here I am before you
a living testament,
left with a raggedy lung
And A quarter of my intestines

For Dawn, for Jordan, for Lili, Bill, for Merideth, for Carly, for Taylor, Delaney, for Meghan...
For Katy, for Beth, for Eugenio
And for Jen...
I'm here today for the 72000 Adolescents and young adults diagnosed with cancer
year on end.

I'm here for all the silent warriors
All those that have *****-stained chain mail, cancer cells dripping from the tips of their swords.
With chemo pumping though their veins and radiation burning through their breast-plates
--whose shields don ribbons and middle fingers, and crosses and curse words!

and I'm begging YOU, 
OOOH you lucky few that have not the pleasure to take on this heavy, honorable, garb.
That when you're raising money.
When you're saying your prayers.
When you're deciding how you're going to make some sort of difference in this insane and tragic world.
Don't be afraid to say cancer.
Don't forget about us.
The first poem is mor elike 5 poems in one. I felt that people wouldn't care to read it or even sit and listen to someone recite it at that length. Who knows? So I tweaked it a bit and took out some parts. The cool thing is that I now have the option to manipulate the poem like a puzzle to suit whatever atmosphere I want it to complement. Enjoy!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
only in england, where so few philosophical
works are actually read,
it's apparently enough to cite Locke,
the famous island isolation -
after watching a program on bipolar disorders /
manic depression and what not
started watching a rekindling of
the premier league from the years 2002 / 3...
with the years' music in the background -
great memories Wayne Rooney was still
at Everton, and David ****** had a moustache
and a ponytail standing in goal at Arsenal,
Ole "babyface" Solskjær was playing at
Manchester United - the white stripes came out
teasing a breakthrough just before
their elephant album - well, that's that,
but this programme about the manics -
you'd think that england was really accommodating
to eccentrics as once Vladimir expressed -
he's half-informed, 'hey Vlad... you have half
the picture, honest to god...'
but i want to deviate from any sort of scrutiny
on the subject - the "sane" people think
doctors are holy - what's with this notion that
some surgeons don't leave surgical equipment
in bodies, and that misdiagnosis doesn't happen?
well... so much for deviation:
does it begin with questioning your thinking
rather than questioning existence?
half-baked activists - no "change the world"
prompt? i guess you could say that -
no qualification credentials and you're just
a street-cleaner, apparently - a street-cleaner
in the sense of shuffling tripping up on
banana skins (chris rea - god's great banana skin -
https://goo.gl/3JYJYV - great song) or waltzing
on autumn leaves - suddenly there's a new
zoology department at the London zoo -
changed sphynxes on two legs rattling piggies
of savings they never made other than what they
picked up from the street - besides that -
well, you can resort to the Koran -
or at least i find a way to mediate it - back to
descartes: an example of good through doubt,
meaning i'm a quasi-believer, but not, as sartre
would claim: an unbeliever - since doubt equates
itself with good faith, sartre's doctrine teaches
bad faith... and if the opposite of bad is good,
then the opposite of doubt is denial (the un- prefix
summary when coupled to belief);
so this one manic depressive was describing
a moment of solipsism in terms of annie lennox
singing to him - well, she was, the man just
experienced a moment of solipsism, a thought
experiment in subconsciously, and he simply didn't
realise it - like i told you - so few works of
philosophy are read in england, most of these books
try to follow the route nietzsche attempted:
to write very little when others wrote a great deal...
and then what? sit on a poet's laurels and ****
and smile that all too deceptive smile of some sort
of accomplishment? that'll hardly work -
imagine thirst, and hunger, and put that into writing -
and here we have the telegraphic technique -
as suggested by the author of slaughterhouse 5 -
m. kurt vonnegut - well obviously you will not find
any comparisons - but then at Yale the professor of
"creative" writing or whatever they call it
just cited the first line of the first canto - so i ask you:
why would you want to write something as if
it's an instruction manual for a television set?
oddly enough too, the Florence school of art technique
wasn't passed on - while Albrecht Dürer kept his
a secret, unto himself - lucky man, a sad man,
but a lucky man - i actually like his selfishness.
no, they don't read philosophy in england,
and i can testify with the usual saying they have:
'he's lost touch with reality', what the hell is that?
no, i don't have the stamina for any secret society
crap - i get the comedy of life,
a comfortable positioning on the ****** laze -
limit all of life's temptations and live out
a slightly impoverished life - premonition i'd say
now, had enough money back when i was making
investments in a music & book library -
now i'm full - now my turn to give -
oh look: a bunch of gnat memory readers
easily distracted by traffic lights - we've all been
there - two years and a few books in between
it took me to read Heidegger's being and time -
TWO YEARS! and how much came in between?
sunset upon glee of the sea - Ezra's
broken token to the conjunctions
        and
                and
                        and and and and
i don't mind - man lived to be poetry's prefect of
the 20th century - see, a whole group of them, not a solitary
macaroon fetishist that Proust was -
and moby **** will have his days counted,
but not by me - there's no point being a Samson
keeping all the pillars - actually, that's the point,
to be Samson, take a few literary pillars
and then the whole **** temple collapses -
so with two or three of them taken by you
the rest you leave a rubble - turning over to the leisure
of poetry - Vladimir, haven't you heard?
people in england think all poetry is depressing,
depressing? 'what's normal?' is another maxim
in england - singing on the train is forbidden, also -
hey, social criticism is better than running around
with a kalashnikov - turn words into bullets
and mown the strata - and mown the strata -
                 and mown the strata -
give up on preplanned expeditions - only gymnasts
and tightrope walkers do pre-planning -
patience and constant innovative practice - ****'s jazz,
there was no classical composer in their midst with
a silencer of the music, music scores -
how they crammed an entire orchestra in those
little heads of theirs, i'll never know -
so this manic depressive man cited solipsism without
knowing it, and it made him very, very uncomfortable...
i wouldn't have sent him to a psychiatrist,
i wouldn't even want to go to one voluntarily -
i'd have sent him to the library -
but oh, oh, more and more libraries are closing -
while the zenith in my local library was
Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus - everything else
was toilet paper.
Yash  Feb 1
Misdiagnosis
Yash Feb 1
Deceit, false flags waving.
Accusations, Gavel of Injustice.
Apate controls your mind.
Mentiras, Você mente.

Crying witches
bodies in the river.
Forest rituals
laughter and dance.

The Crucible, great Aurther.
White coated, glass-eyed
Judge John Hawthorne, you are.
Don't believe Abigail Williams

Salem witch trials commence.
Screaming ****** ******
Witchcraft! Sociopathy!
Don't throw me in the river.

Believe the innocent.
5 lives, central park 5
liars are adults, kids are angels.
Don't throw me behind bars.

Erro de diagnóstico.
White walls, white lies
empty promises, filled pockets
lamb in wolf´s cave.

Happy little pills.
Serotonin, mess up his mind
make him an empty shell.
**** him up, porque quem se importa.

White angel in white hell.
Josef Mengele, don't touch me
evildoer, you are. **** salute
go back to screaming Heil ******.

Touch me once, I will resist.
Tell me twice, I will talk.
Tame me thrice, I will scream.
Trail of final letters, suicídio.
Portugese
Mentiras - lies
Você mente - you lie
Erro de diagnóstico - Misdiagnosis
Porque quem se importa - Because who cares
Suicídio - Suicide
FecalCranium Apr 2014
Saint Patrick's day
Two whiskeys six beers,
Getting ready for the night.
I wasn't ready.
My phone buzzing
Like a hummingbird
Stuffed in my pocket.
Suddenly I have friends,
It's so overwhelming.
Feels like getting cancer,
I hope it was a misdiagnosis.
Then I saw you.
I'm used to it,
But it's always just a ghost.
Tonight it wasn't,
And I wasn't ready.
You were buried years ago,
But ****, you smelt the same.
As the day I threw the dirt on you.
Sometimes she wished
The little things would **** her
All the risks of
Surgery, skin cancer, and stupidity
Carried no weight
For she wanted so badly for
The little things to **** her.

She caught herself daydreaming
Of the possibility that today
Would never lead to another tomorrow
That way the little things -
The sudden and accidental car crash,
The one in a million lightning bolt,
The simple but fatal misdiagnosis
Could rescue her.

For her, death was not to be feared.
How could it possibly be worse
Than the concept of life -
Waking each day hopeful
Going to bed each night disappointed -
Disappointed in herself for failing
To outrun the bitter criticism
She imposed on herself.

So cowardly.
So weak.
So broken.

Pathetic.

And so she kept wishing
For the little things,
Hopeful
That they'd save her from
The bigger things:
Her regrets, her failures, her emptiness
But as always
She was disappointed.
Axiana Jan 2015
Unbelievable
Catastrophically beautiful
I reflect the many unusual
Aspects of numerous physical
Understandings of the usual
Misdiagnosis, I am the typical
One of a kind, somewhat mythical
Kind of creature, more suitable
For a reality that is musical
Oh, but you will see the perpetual
Cues that put you in a visual
Hologram of a disputable
Nature - it is unlike any future
Disputable, delusional, junior
Planet I have ever seen
And so I will lie here and dream
Of stars I will one day orbit, these
Desires to become, to just be
Without misplaced agony
Teaching lessons I suppose I need
But that is not all that is me
I will remember it is only
Moments like these
That will become forgotten,
Fleeting memories

— The End —