“They have locked the ward,” said Tristana, “I am prisoner to the nurse’s whim. I see the large key hanging from her belt, it rattles against the other keys as she walks. I feel ghosts touch my arm as I pass; their voices echo in my ears, their fingers feel my flesh. The nurse called Bryony bellows at us all; her voice hammers in our ears. The windows show the fields beyond, the trees wave in the wind, the birds fly so high. Isolde holds my hand, she follows me wherever I go; her eyes are alight with her father’s ghost; his spanking hand raised in her memory’s eye. I let her come to my bed at night, let her cuddle close when the lights are out, let her kiss when the others sleep. The mad here are ****** by their minds; the sunlight makes them ***** up their eyes; their voices are pitched to the highest degree. The nurses come with their strutting pace; their hands haul us to our place in the dining hall; the food rammed down throats like pigs at troughs; the sounds of the mad echo the walls. Isolde and I walk in the grounds; the elm grove our daily trot; the birds our only companions. She speaks of her father’s hitting hand and his ******* times with her flesh at nights; she stares at the sky like a lost sheep. We embrace beyond the window’s sight; we kiss where none can see; the sunlight blesses us, the wind holds us with kind parent’s touch; we whisper words to the passing birds. The high walls surround us; the far off bell reminds us of home; the sound of keys locking reminds us of Hell. The nurses come for the baths are ready; the patients scream for the water’s hot, the flesh turns red at the water’s touch. The nurse called Bridget takes my hand, she leads me to the washing room, her hands rub me clean as my mother’s did; her eyes are blue as the distant sky; her voice melodic as a bird in spring. The chaplain comes with his bible and prayer; his eyes are black as the doomed and the ******; his voice bellows like the thunder of storms. He leads us in prayer like the blind leading blind; the Bible is read but the message is lost; the patients hum like the soon to be dead. I want my mother’s hold, my sister’s kiss; I want to hear the laughter of my father’s voice, his embrace against the storms that shake my mind.  Isolde comes; her hand in mine holds me fast; her lips are ever on my cheek, kissing me in her daily love, her voice tripping over words like a lame child’s run. We sit and watch the clouds pass by; we name each one with our special names, we see shapes in the formation as they pass. She cries in her sleep if her father comes, his ghostly shape and his spanking hand, her flesh shakes as he passes by. The doors of the ward are locked; the asylum holds us in a strong man’s grip; the nights go out as we twist and turn; Isolde creeps to my bed like a frighten child; we embrace in the darkness against the cold and ghosts; the keys rattle in our sleep; Isolde’s lips are pressed to my breast; the angels may come one night and grant us rest.”

I was sitting in my white room
Sitting on top of the world
Where there are no cares to implore
Never worried about if there was more
Touching monsters that are made to laugh
Tasting colors , smelling every sound
Bite the dog of realities hound
All this in a way , without any
Hell has come to claim it's fair game
In the deserted cemeteries of the heart

In his brain, the metallic sweetness of the blood *****.
Because at night he strides on a tightrope.
Balancing between insanity and reality.
He takes pills cause they say it'll help his anatomy.
The clean flick of a knife against a throat.
He staggers and falls into the murky moat.

Don't blame him.

He's drowning in his own sorrow.
They swallowed his hope for a better tomorrow.
They locked him up in a casket.
Tied a bow around it like a basket.
But he's not six feet under.
He's stuck here, starting to plunder.

Don't blame him.

He knows that his past is drenched in black.
They told him he stabbed his mother in the back.
He feels their blood dripping down his fingers.
But still he can never remember what lingers.
The men in the long white coats talk about trees, and cars, and trains, and boats.
But all he can remember is the room that he's in.
His vest held together by a chain and a pin.

Don't blame him.

He's hugging the padded walls.
Dreaming of the day where his sanity calls.
He's tired, he knows that his mind is already expired.
Yet still every night, he strides on a tightrope as his essence is groped.
Everyday he's on the verge of insanity and reality.
He makes sure they don't change his anatomy.
His white vest restrains him.
It tends to drain him.
Everyday he dreams in blood.
But then again how could you blame him.
They'll eat him alive before his life claims him.

Don't Blame Him.

As the current from the torture chair flow in my veins,
I forget all the past pains.
Tried to discover the old me as I lost my consciousness,
He was standing right there with my parents.
Old times, Faded memories comes alive.
Fishing with dad,
Playing baseball with friends,
And smell of Mom's homemade brownies,
How can I forget them?
They have been a part of me.
But Then I saw shadow of mine from the present.
Scared, screaming, drowning in the pool of dead.
And trying to forget all the pain from the past by loosing self in the present cycle of pain and unconsciousness.

First came electric therapy, designed by men to **** her memory. The currents coursed through her veins. They tried to burn her true love from her brain. Synapses flared and flamed singeing away nearly everything she dared to feel almost nothing was left but a name, an impression. Session after session sparks cut through her skull and tore through her mind.

All she had to do to escape was to lie, and say she no longer felt that way. However, in her slurred and slow mental state all that she could do was whisper her lovers name. Iris sweet Iris the flower of her love, whose touch sent shivers swimming through her body. Iris the unforgettable, desirable, and unregrettable; even in the hours of her darkest pain she would never wish to forget that wonderful name. A name attached to such pleasurable memories. Iris whose lips tasted like strawberries and mouth would moan musically with her satisfaction. Touching each other under the starlit sky, bare breast against bare breast, licking each other from back to thigh until their passions exploded and they came together in exhaustion. No matter how much their love cost them, the jobs it lost them, the family they had to leave behind, it was all worth it. The love they had was special. Men would glance and stare; Sick with desire and envy, but they didn’t care.  
The Doctors tried to destroy their love but failed, because buried deep within the burnt flesh, on some deep genetic level the feelings still remained. Night after night she quietly sobbed Iris’s name. Her vision and memories were faded and degraded by the shocks administered. Sometimes after the doctors left and she was by herself, she would search her mind trying to find her own name. Corner to corner each crevice and crack, each hidden corridor in her mind was faded, and the only name she could find was Iris’s. Other evenings when no one was watching the orderlies would sneak into her room to tease and taunt her. They would scar her body with their fevered kisses, violating her womanhood with their vile flesh protruding and extending into her. Her eyes would close. Her body would tense, and her mind would vacate her skull, while holding on to only one thing, Iris.

When the merciless administering of electrical current to her brain failed to achieve any notable degree of success, the butcher came. They called him Doctor Slade, A specialist. They brought her to his table in a white room that was sterile and scentless. Her body was strapped to a cold metal table and she was sedated. Slade sliced through the skin on her skull, cracked the bone and opened her up, exposing her mind to the all those in attendance. Then when he was finished, he walked away a proud master mutilator. The nurse, whose white uniform was now splattered and sprayed with blood and bits of brain matter, hauled her back to her room.  

In her room she sat dripping drool from her swollen lips. Her vacant eyes stared out at the blank wall registering nothing at all. The bandages on her skull concealed small patches of blonde hair matted with clots of blood. Her drawers reeked of ***** matter because she had soiled herself. Nothing remained except a shell.

Somewhere far away Iris screamed the forgotten name. In her dreams she cradled her lover’s fragile frame, but never saw or touched her lovers face. Iris scribed their love in journal after journal, sketching out in deep determined details their five years together. She wrote of each high and low from the first time they met in the College courtyard till they day they were separated permanently.

Years passed. Iris’s body weakened from despair and began to waste away. Her flesh sagged from her bones bunching into wrinkles with brown speckles and spots parading all over her skin. Memories got lost in the fog of her mind until one day she could no longer recall her lover’s name. Shortly thereafter Iris faded away as well. Her body remained unsoiled by shame, for their love had been a thing of poetry, epic, and beyond belief, a guard against the unjustified onslaught of social madness, a sweet relief no matter how brief.

I have hid behind broken shadows, disappointed daydreams and somber reminders.

I have been bitten by the black widow of life, poisoning my veins with her venom of death.

I have been mutilated like one of Jack the Ripper's victim on the dark streets of London, left to bleed out.

I have escaped the evil smiles of Pogo the Clown that crept in my dreams as I slept at night, crying my black tears.

I have been Bound, Tied and Killed by the innocent friendly neighbor, twisted in the head by the devil himself.

I could hear the screams of the pregnant actress as the Family took her life in a blood bath, as they began their Helter Skelter.

I can not escape this Alcatraz of torture in my mind, that has been placed there by the lunatics of our time. But it is fun in this asylum.

Welcome to my padded cell.

I hear the silence
ringing my ear.
It's eerily piercing
no one can hear.

Blocking the sound,
getting much closer.
Dripping in sweat,
terror no venture.

Shackled with chains,
bound to cold steel.
Can't break away,
madness come feel.

Padded inside,
ceiling all white,
Ninety four tiles,
count every night.

Shadows walk by,
steps by the dozen.
Sitting in darkness,
silence and frozen.

The lights go on.
the lights go off.
Sanity is gone.
NOW GO *******!!