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Yenson Aug 1
Saw the bean pole and its roots
arguing outdoor with two oppressors
bean pole treated unfavourably
its on foreign soil doused in free milk
but reminded
its just another border crosser
from a rubber dinghy from Calias

Saw the bean pole housed
in nursery and greenhouse to propagate
now rooted anew its given nutrients
but it must do as ordered
for no matter what
its just another border crosser
from a rubber dinghy from Calias

Saw bean pole growing tendrils
leaves unfold green to catch sunshine
but now a puppet amongst others
who bend and shape at will
bean pole see that plant next to you
its taking your nutrients away
go block its sun
do as we say or else
just remember you're just another crosser
from a rubber dinghy from Calias

Bean pole will grow and bear fruits
on foreign soil there's milk and honey
but for as long as the sun shines
the chains and barbs will hold
bean pole is just a stick
carrying tendrils to grow the beans
eaten by those of the land
who to them will always be  
just another border crosser
from a rubber dinghy from Calias
Ziv Feb 7
Countless times I’ve spent pouring out kerosene
in the form of words,
attempting to lessen the flames roaring inside
but only fueling them in the process.
You seem to be the only one that will listen;
then again how could you protest?
It’s a relationship that’s hardly symbiotic.

I’ve learned that most times I am the lit match
igniting a room full of fumes,
tearing down the walls around me as quickly as I built them.
I am the one scorching the palms of those who seek comfort
and searing the tongues of those who offer it.

So go,
stay far away from the flames,
and know, that soon I’ll burn up all I have,
Maybe then I won’t be a threat anymore.
Let's all go
to Damnation Island.
Let's all go to
the lunatic's ball.
We'll  have
amusements, and
dancing, and the
magic lantern.
The stupefaction
is for us all.

The poor will
be there,
and tired.
The poor will
be there,
dresses in rags.
We'll all have fun
on  Damnation Island.
The degradation is
for us all.

The criminals
are on
Damnation Island.
They're dancing and
killing at the
lunatic's ball.
The criminals love
Damnation Island.
The mortification is
for us all.

If you go to
Damnation Island,
if you dance at
the lunatics ball,
you might stay on
Damnation Island,
there's a good chance
you'll sell
your soul
Norman Crane Oct 2020
Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees
Labyrinth of oiled imagination
Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees
in unbalanced joy and veneration
of ourselves. For there is nobody else
but us; there is no other time but now,
Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels
a still landscape into being somehow
fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within
each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild
emancipation—to forget the din
of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled:
Dive too deep and you shall go insane,
The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting of the same name.
Jordan Gee Aug 2020
my heart is on fire
one half cup espresso, a vape
and a song that drapes my heart in a purple fire,
with the same purple glow inside the go go bar
where that dancer handed Bukowski a dried lily
But only for a moment.

lesson #104 and the
music rides a sine wave into
my left ear.
I sat upon a lotus pad and kept
a straight back
the Angelus Novus couldn’t (insert link)
close its wings against
the winds of Paradise so
elated were the Gods by the
progress of man.
so high the rubble of the wreckage the
view from its summit rivaled the
vantage gained from
standing atop the Six Grandfathers within the
Four-headed Dog from across the pond.

national broadcast in the jungle and
all the box would do is
and all the cockroaches would do is
and all the machetes would do is
and all the bodies burned
and Felicien Kabuga was kindly granted asylum by the West
and remained at large for over 25 years.
(insert link)
may all the kings be strangled with the entrails of all the priests
Jade Apr 2020
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and voluntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️

This is not my first heartbreak.

I've had many,
and I've certainly had worse.

at the time,
my heart would have plead

(If only I knew
what was to come
two years later--

but there's a poem
for another day.

In fact,
I believe
you've read it.)

This is the first heartbreak
I feel everywhere--
a cataclysmic aching
that I am certain  
will reduce my pulse to  

This is my first anxiety attack.

My fingernails scrape violently
at my collarbone
as if they are looking to fulfill
some distant, unadulterated urge
to tear myself apart.

(They are digging
for what whispers beneath--

a dying thing.)

But I cannot
this Incarceration;

I cannot
the shuddering confines
of my own body.

I tear away
my clothes
until I am left
in just my underwear.
rocking myself back and forth
like the mad girls
do in the movies.

(Is it true?

Have I gone mad?)

I run the shower
even though I don't have
any intention of showering.

I do this only so my mum
doesn't hear me sobbing,
the sounds of which
are concealed by
the water's blaze.

The room fogs over--

and all the world
is a mist.

and suddenly,
I don't know
what to do with myself.

and suddenly,
I don't give
an absolute ****
about what happens to me

For this simple reason, I decide to go to the hospital.

Take away my  

Take away my

Just promise-
******* promise me--
you'll take away the
pain too.

You don't
(of course).

"Please don't tell me you're here because of a boy."

This is one of the first things--
perhaps even the first thing--
the doctor says to me.

"What? Did you think the two of you would ride off into the sunset and live out the rest of your days on some faraway island?"

(Something to this extent,
yet still not an exaggeration.)

to doctors,
broken hearts
are a ridiculous waste of time.

They prefer to deal
in broken things
they can easily
cast and bandage
in fluorescent colours
upon which all the people
you know can then sign,

"Get well soon."

But there is no one to sign
get well soon
across the
latitude of my chest.

Because no one truly believes
there is anything for me
to recover from--

they can't see it,
so it mustn't be real


for cutting a girl down
when she's already bleeding,

and I've got the scars
to prove it.)

don't ya know
it was never about
just a boy?

It was about
yet another instance of
I was forced to add
to my repertoire
of not-good-enoughs,
yet another loss
by my ailing brain.

(what came first--
the plague,
or the boy?

Do I even have to
provide a ******* answer
to such an obvious question?)

I know what
type of person you are:

an egotistical *** hat
who thinks mental illness
is inferior
to Physical Illness


it's all in my head
it's all in my head
it's all in my head


what if I told ya
is always trying to **** me?

What if I told you
wants nothing more
than to reduce my pulse--
my broken heart--
to flatlines?

Would you take back what you said?

(probably not).
#abuse #asylum #betrayal #blogger #blogging #broken #darkness #depression #destruction #emotion #freeverse #inferiority #lost #love #madness #mentalhealth #pain #past #prejudice #poetry #sadness #scars #time #tragic #tragedy #truth #writing
Mark Sep 2019
Why do dictators like to finger the globe?
Shoot the ******* dead, before they become world known.
Should we strangle the gangster and forget about a police probe?
Now in Ferguson, it's happening daily and getting full blown.

Do you think about how others live?
Or look away from others in society your with.

What sort of human can make another's jaw drop and body flop?
Get in the ring, put on your gloves and see who comes out on top.
Will the man on the moon ever show us his dark side?
Maybe the little green men have got something to hide.

Do you think about how others live?
Or look away from others in society your with.

Do clowns sometimes cry and does their eyeliner run?
Maybe there black or white and some might even carry a gun.
Do prison girls like the jail uniform stripe?
Surely they wish for a pink blouse, but never gripe.

Do you think about how others live?
Or look away from others in society your with.

Why do banks, shareholders and politicians always have money in reserve?
While the workers, pensioners and babies don't get what they deserve.
Since when should new immigrants be able to paddle to shore?
When skilled workers from afar and new brides are drowned in red tape, for sure.

So just think about how others live?
Also look at all others in society and give.
It is said there is life out of Earth,
Not just moss or some germ livin’ in filth;

There are beasts very smart in Syluthaarme,
A big rock with a vast digital farm,

Where they work not at all or too hard,
Have one ear, but three legs, walk backward,

Got one eye gazing far far away,
And complexions of more shades of gray

Than is seen here on Earth. Among the mass
Live a few who belong to no class,

But pretend that they share illusions
The less smart breeding mass envisions.

An asylum it is for the sane
In the insane’s needed stead feel the chain.
Hossein Mohammadzade
Creator Sun Sep 2019
Do you see the boy?
Skipping and jumping under the sky?
Laughing like he has no fear in the world.
Holding hands with air.

Do you notice the way he moves?
The way his feet jerks and grooves?
Moving so unnaturally,
Laughing like there's no end in things.

Lovely schizophrenia, isn't it?
The way it came from his mother?
The way he cares for someone else
Suffering from the same mental illness.

Delusions, fabrications, dreams that is unreal.
the way that he perceives the world makes me really feel.
Uncomfortable, yet I don't think that he asked me to feel
Pity for his condition.

Laugh of a thousand children,
Asking for a better future,
Those ones that seek the asylum,
And look forward for capture.
Public opinion on mental illness is changing, but is it for the better?
Tony Tweedy Mar 2019
I have spoken with young men,
who were forced to up and run.
Seen the wounds they carry,
from the barrel of someones gun.

I have Spoken with women,
women with tears in eyes that burn.
As they relate what was done,
because they wanted just to learn.

Ive seen teenage girls running,
in fear for their own lives.
Because someone has told them,
they must become someones wives.

I sat with the old men,
whose spirit would not yield.
And heard how rains of bombs,
were dropped upon their field.

I have heard the many stories,
of families torn apart.
Heard of those still missing,
and the pain in fragmented heart.

I've heard of persecutions,
because of the differing of views.
The scores of people disappeared,
without even making evening news.

I met with many others,
and watched and heard them pray.
Running in fear because for them,
it means death to live your life as gay.

I have talked with the children,
all facing life alone.
Parents not seen,
since the houses all got blown.

These most horrible of all things,
most of you will never see.
But someone needs to tell you
these are the lives lived for many a refugee.
So many stories.... be thankful of where you are born or live... I am.
This poem could have gone for pages more. I spoke with hundreds of asylum seekers over 13 years. edited 17th March 2019
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