#asylums poems on Hello Poetry

Strying Apr 2021

A country road leads to a home.
Beyond rows of trees,
you find a place to hide,
and yet people always seem to be hiding in a place
where they can be found.
Where can one go to never be discovered?
One may wonder if such a place exists.
If it does, how does one get there?
Is death the only path, or can other ways be made.
Can a person scream and not be heard.

Years may pass, but the only constant
is the endless denial of the end.
There will always be nothing in the end.
Blank.
Then again,
a blank canvas is exactly what so many artists look for,
right?
What many broken people look for to make a new start?
A blank page is a new story waiting to be written,
a life waiting to be lived,
and a masterpiece waiting to be crafted.
Art is a whole other story,
for every stoke creates one piece of something
that has never been made before,
no matter how detailed one can replicate,
each is new,
as each person is a new.

These are all pretty random thoughts;
put together using words,
sentences, paragraphs,
whatever you want to call it.

In reality, everything we know is made by people.
This is because, even things made by God,
were polluted by people.
Who knows if God wanted the sky named “sky.”
In reality, nothing is reality,
it’s all a concept.
And not all of these ideas can be written.
Everything seems dumb down to what we,
who we consider the most advanced species,
can understand.
To me,
it seems many animals can get by with
just knowing that when it is dark they sleep,
and when it is light they get up.

Anyway,
my point is that if,
humans can turn beauty into false concepts,
people are too a false concept.
Who are humans;
some say we are ****-sapiens.
I say we are beings,
all trying to find a purpose in a broken society,
broken by us.

Why is that in an attempt to educate our young,
we stress them out past levels of asylums just a century ago.
I don’t see what the point of creating a world where people are unhappy is.
And then, they don't allow for an escape from it.
Their personal sad and insanity entertainment.
Our only escape is death,
and suicide is looked down upon.
What does society expect us to do?
Talk to other people,
the root cause of the world’s negatives.

When I say it would be easier to die, it’s the truth.
Death is the easy way out,
and yet why does it feel so hard?

I know it's long, I apologize.

#sad #life #people #lies #imagination #constant #world #die #asylums

Casey Winchester Mar 2015

Big White Walls

Living in a corner,
Desolate –
Alone.
Surrounding – surrounding.
Suffocating and bleeding on the outside,
There he sits,
On pristine white sheets,
And a dying dream in his head.

Outside the bullets ring beneath his finger,
The gunpowder traces patterns of silk.
It coats his clothes as morning musk.

Inside, a choir sings, happy - joyful;
Hymns of harmony.
Inside he never did;
He never did check in;
Into those big white walls.

Clad in the sky and it's ***** of fluff,
He can't let go,
He can't accept,
He can't define the horrors;
The madness.
Behind his own demons,
Behind his own burdens -
What he could never do.

What happened on the outside?
What happened beyond the sea or white?
The restriction of the big white walls?

Inside, everything was fine.
Everything was crisp;
Everything was clean.
Family laughed at pure jokes.
Children sauntered up knolls full of overgenerous seas of color.
Life was like a fairy tale.
He had a life worth living for.
A life where there were no twists nor turns.
There were no shouts of agony;
There were no firing rings.
He had a sister who still admired him -
Who still stood by his side.
One that he felt he needed to protect.

On the outside, he knew he ruined it.
He knew he took away her last and only breath.
He says he's sorry -
He prays to be forgiven.
On the outside, he is rarely there:
He is rarely sane.

Daring death,
He will sit.

Outside he will be poked.
Outside he will be prodded.
Outside he sees the clipboards.
Outside he is tested:
Outside he had a diagnosis.

Mental -
Unstable -
Crazy -
Freak.
The words circle his brain.
A hawk stalking its prey.

On the outside;
He thinks to himself, 'this isn't real.'
He tells himself, 'this isn't real.'
His family is still taking their breaths.
The gun never vibrated between his fingers.
He tells himself he's dreaming.

He will always be on the inside.
Even as the years grow old,
And the planets crumble under a fallen touch.
Even if in reality, it isn't real,
He thinks, 'it is.'

On the outside is the truth.
On the outside is the regret.
On the outside id the remorse.

On the inside is the peace.
On the inside is the tranquility.
On the inside is the life.

Living in a corner,
Desolate –
Alone.
Surrounding – surrounding.
Suffocating and bleeding on the outside,
There he sits,
On pristine white sheets,
And a dying dream in his head;

For the outside is an asylum,
and the inside a false paradox.

I wrote this about two years ago, so this is going to differ from some of the things I write now, and my writing style has changed a small bit.

#dark #mental #similes #repetition #hospital #asylums

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