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Jules Jan 22
I’m staring up in the hospital where the white walls and blank food
Peacefully negate time, forgetting myself, throwing myself
At the ceiling, waiting for a life opening my eyes after the water

That night--could
Strangers exist, or, were we, in death, solitary
In some humanity-sea, some strange current of fear
And love, an exile.

As I stare cross-side from the bed
towards the door (doctor,
Do you hear me, would you call?)
A blankness overtakes
Us sick, not the polite white or the eloquent black,
But the great greys
That paint my world, in its Nocturnes.

I had become a child, weeping onto a breast I couldn’t see
in the narrow press of the dining table
some destruction posed in the cornflakes

doctor, Charon and reverse-Charon
what are my rights,
How long is my sentence, what crude injury has my mind
And body conspired against me?
This is based on a two week stay in a hospital I had after a life-threatening injury.
James Jan 22
vicodin is a long term friend
with a warrent for my liver
and my life.

1:43am
we had an appointment
and god only knows
i could never be late for such
a chalky sense of closure.

and the young paramedic
who burst my vein and scolded me
could only pray his words
meant more than the hum of streetlights
as my body exchanged existence
for the embodiment of thought
and a brittle concept of my phrenic nerve

which was never more at peace than when
my lungs remembered the luxury
of standstill traffic

of weighted morals

of crushing insecurity's release
and the resulted ballooning
as squashed egos cry, and the garage door screams as it's yanked open

horrid sounds and tortured motion on both accounts

spiritual cataracts torn free
commercialized visions now blur

as the orange bottle morphs from
vicodin to paracetamol

equalized views in my bloodstream
as the sheet metal ceiling shifts to plaster tiles

to a TV set

to a bathroom mirror

to an agonized woman next door

to the back windows where my mother cries where no one but the whole world can watch

to a blue plastic mattress and a first floor window covered with bars

to a pale green day room with a caged TV
where there was bleach in the stomach of a nine year old

where the dying took their resurrecting breath between games of spoons

where the hinges screamed and blood pressure was taken three times a day

this where the living came to kiss death goodbye

until next time
Bettlejuice Jan 21
Once was enough
Twice that was tough
Three times it try’s
Fourth times a deadly compromise
The psych ward
Vale Luna Jan 20
When you have someone asking you
If you feel suicidal
Eight times a day
You start to feel like maybe you should be
Otherwise…
They would have let you go by now

You blink.
And notice
There are no clocks on the walls
Making you painfully aware
That the ticking sound is just in your head
Trying to cope
Without the security of time

They tell you you have to feel better
Before you can go home
But you have to be home
In order to feel better
You know that.
But you start to wonder
If they’ll ever figure it out

It occurs to you
That this group of strangers
Are now in control of your life
They could lock the door for months
Isolate you from all you know
And tell you it’s for your own safety

You are stuck.

The lights in the hallway flicker
Like the programmed beginning
Of a horror movie
You blink.
And another set of lanyards and clipboards
Are standing in front of you
Asking if you feel like hurting yourself
Or someone else today

No.

It’s getting harder to tell the truth
And the other patients;
Vociferously desperate around you
Are the most intense form of peer pressure

Seconds feel like hours
And days like years
You blink.
And the frustration of keeping your sanity
Drips from your eyes
Your own tears used as evidence
For the lie they want you to admit

Your eyelids droop
Heavy with the exhaustion
Of keeping a sound mind

Either way
You know it’s only a matter of time
Before you blink again.
Based on my time in the hospital...
Luna Jay Jan 17
X-rays always made her feel like a model,
The doctor always taking her pictures.
She always posed.
Every imperfection, every flaw in her porcelain skin,
They refused to overlook.
They had to inspect her,
Make sure she wasn’t contagious.
“Drink this, eat that, take these.
Let us shove tubing down your throat
So we can find you another pill”
And she was absolutely sick and tired
Of all of the rules and tubes and wires
And people she didn’t know touching all over her,
Making her feel
“Better”
It made her feel exposed.
Cold.
Like she was some
******* bunny for a physical health magazine.
Her nostrils were stained with
The strong scent of hand sanitizer.
And she couldn’t keep the hospital food down,
And the shower was always freezing cold…
But at least they could make her feel
“Better”
Erasing the taste of
Copper anorexia at the back of her throat,
She’s just an experiment.
Annie Jan 15
Under sizzling and bleeping
The time runs nigh
Between heaven and ****
In a room, too bright
Runs a body deadly circles
Captured in pipes
While the fellowship falls silent
As the headman decides
To live and let die

Slow, but soon, the dying noise
Leaves a weakly beating heart
Fighting it's own pointless war
No men alive shall ever thwart
And lifes children turn quiet
As they face the final loss
The fact they can´t deny
They live and let die

Now, the silence bales and centers
Around the fallen prey
Slowly, death spreads, like a cancer
Drives the living away
Until only ease is lagging
In the minds that still stand by
Relief about the outcome
To live and let die
Written 2013, after a very, in a psychological way, exhausting day.
Carlyyyy Jan 13
I hear the cry in your eyes
I feel your longing for peace

Am I as helpless as I fear you think I am?
If three syllables could move this mountain,

I’d scream it out loud,
mending our wounds,

Yours a worried soul,
Mine a unsettled heart.


<c.h.b.>
With a heavy heart, I sit here next to my grandmother, as she doesn’t want to be where she is now.
Lost Jan 9
Cigarette lungs
And poisoned guts
I have a rotten brain
Riddled with curdled spots

I ****** down fistfuls
Of pills from six separate bottles
I can’t nurture any self love
But I find loathing inside to cradle and coddle

Scarred skin
And rampant decay
I am an animated corpse
A macabre, dancing display

In the ICU for three days
Tachycardia and shakes
Jellied my legs into
Disobedient writhing snakes

Cobweb chest
And festering heart
I pucker and ooze
Sickly sour and ****

Hospital hallucinations
On the sink sat a friendly bird
It shifted from form to form
Singing beautiful songs no one else heard
I tried to **** myself by overdosing on various medications December 28th. I haven’t been able to write anything worthwhile since, but I still wanted to share something anyway since I’ve been away at the hospital for so long. It feels good to be out and to be making progress. I will keep writing until I can create something of value again. Thank you all for your unconditional support and patience. I appreciate this outlet endlessly.
void Jan 8
writhing in pain
i remembered vividly
what the doctor had said to me
"you have manic depression
but you are too young"
and then she walked out

i was thirteen
i didn't know
what that meant

so i tossed in bed
and ate my blanket
but not the food they served me
because if i ate food
then i wouldn't be
pretty
like her

"you can't touch each other
not even fingertips"
i needed love
from someone who knew
my struggle
they took that opportunity away
(for another few months)

"your family is here to visit"
i said i didn't want to

"you are in control of
your stay here"
you didn't even
try to stop me
from lying
my way out
you helped me
lie

"you can't listen
to what kept you alive"
why not?
but you can play songs
that describe
****
with the curse words
bleeped out

"we'll give you the others
information if they leave it
for you"
they did
so why don't i have it

"you can't have any
unsupervised utensils"
then tell me
why
did you leave us
a group of
unstable and
freshly medicated
teenagers
alone in a room
with scissors and glue
scared and confused

"you can talk about
anything in group therapy"
then why couldn't i speak
when i was ready?
was it that
i wanted to tell them
how ******* thankful
i was
to be somewhere that
finally
wanted to help
with people like me

"we want to help you get better"
the biggest lie you told
"if the pill doesn't help, just tell us"
you called me an addict
"you can tell us anything"
you made me feel nauseous
"you're safe here"
you made me undress
after visible discomfort
and tears
so you could look
and poke
and ****

"you have manic depression"
but we wont treat you for it

instead, we will treat you for depression
with a touch of
anxiety
because we don't want you better
we just want you away

I have manic depression
Untreated for at least
Four years.
At this rate
And my mental state(s)
It could very well be
Borderline Personality.

I have(had) manic depression
And they took four years
Away from me.
i was in the mental hospital for 6(?) or 8(?) days. it wasn't all bad, it just wasn't good. if any of you have bipolar or bpd and would be open to talking to me please message me. it's scary to realize this.
elle Jan 5
it seeps
under my fingernails into skin
doused in clean! the filth is killed!
then I spit at it.

Demands:

caress my brow in a palm, any warm pocket of flesh
a grandmother’s *****
the spine of a leaf
my dog’s velvet-soft triangle-shaped ear
anything that will let my grief get some rest

sorrow is heavy trash bag to haul

find me a bellhop or a sidewalk construction man
something with biceps and a hardened face. someone who can clean **** up.

please,
sweep
these shards could maim a bystander
         why force one to bleed such an unnecessary truth
wouldn't want to wreck these shiny floors

better to keep it hid, better tighten my lips around it
I mean,
how do -you- feel under these fluorescent lights?
who is studying who?

I understand now my circus of an existence was born
in a tight space
between the exhausted description of my histories
-the official ones- and

these secrets,
the juicy stuff
      
encrypted in me
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