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Maple Mathers Feb 2016
“I have something for you to remember me by,” said Tim.

    He held a little foam Hippo – the lone play animal supplied by the loonybin to patients in need.

     It was brand new – just as every Hippo looked – and I wondered why he’d chosen something seemingly impersonal in comparison to his other, odd gifts.

     However, what he did next made his hippo – my hippo – absolutely ideal. To people like Tim and I, that is.

     For, to my astonishment, he casually took the toy in his hands, twisted, and ripped it cleanly  in two.

     He ripped off its head, which he gave to me, whilst he kept the body.

    I will never get rid of that mutilated, foam hippo head. For he understood what no one else had ever come near.

     In this way – perhaps – Tim and I became synonyms. Synonyms for what ignorant perceptions would later christen ******, or merely, crazy (the latter - coined by those who remain too depressingly colloquial to invent unfounded diagnoses).

     These epithets, catalyzed post personifying such societal taboos as Tim or I committed, follow me still, and have yet to disperse.
  
     A criticaster disaster, personified.

     Yes; in this way – Tim and I became synonymously insane.



Chapman University destroyed my life.

(Edited out(?): My failed death-wish, and subsequent involuntary hospitalization, would render malicious and ignorant individuals to alienate and shun my entire existence. My former allies, friends, and peers - those who had "loved" and "supported" me - would soon slander and sabotage me simply to maintain their own fabricated facades.
     Associating with someone who failed at suicide is a social deathwish, apparently; yet, if I'd succeeded, they'd lament and mourn their "loss.")

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Eva Louise Feb 2016
hundreds stuck with an eternal fever
lay here in disjointed slumber
lazy wires weave in and out of me
a chemical flood running through veins
broken figures with wounded paws
whimpering as nurses tend to them
feet of patients wander
trying to find a lost haven
doctors with damp foreheads
speak in blurred voices
invoke our names
some apathetically repent
mumbling bible verses
others are circled by heaving bodies
drowned in grating alacrity
holding only stale memories
of the surrounding faces
with familiar fugue
we fall into a hollow decay
an unspoken gravity hangs among us
these copies of shoebox rooms
are pristine prison cells
I lay here
bound by unseen shackles
ill with harrowing impatience
even the howling catacombs
would sound like a victory march
to the desolate silence of white walls
do not resuscitate
writing activity- 30 assigned words
Cat Fiske Feb 2016
My horse Bobby is trapped in horse hospital,
Bobby kicks at things that make sounds like the whips used to beat at him,
so Bobby is behind a wall with a window for his head to poke out,
and he pokes it out all time when I stop by,
and I hate to leave because goodbye leaves me to cry,
I'd of never seen Bobby's body,
if it wasn't for the spaces inbetween the bars on the wall,
Bobby back used to be nothing more then ripped up flesh,
Bobby lives in his own world of fear now,
in that little stall,
in that little box he is safe, yet trapped in his past,
Bobby reminds me of my past,
and how my room is like his stall,
and sometimes I get to stick my head out,
but I will always be reminded of those sounds of fear,
like to Bobby those sounds that scare him as if he was getting whipped,
I have my own fears,
I keep hold of,
never to get rid of,
Just like Bobby,
and like Bobby no matter how many times you tell us it's okay,
we still are fearful of the wrong that was done,
and easily could become done again.
Bobby, I may not be able to own you,
even if I could,
they wouldn't let me,
because you're in horse hospital,
so I want to make you and myself get better,
so I would be able to take you home,
and not cry when I leave you in the stall,
as you stick you head out,
and watch me leave the horse hospital,
Bobby my horse has ptsd, just like me.
HS Edwards Feb 2016
I lay in my cold hospital bed, my arms stinging from the fresh IVs nurse Toby placed under my skin.
I lay in my cold hospital bed and wonder...
I wonder if I was given even one more month, how many poems and stories I would write.
How many people I would make laugh and cry.
How many times I would say "I love you."
How many times I would pray.
How many times I would close my eyes and re-accept my inevitable fate.
I lay in my cold hospital bed.
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