Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.

I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.

The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t  
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?

I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.

The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan.  Everything is a  
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.

I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.

He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color.  He’s a young  
drunk;
a madman and a  
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.

Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a  
cerebral prison.

The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a  
hospital room.

A girl not born but made with trauma

Her story so bizarre, it seems like a drama

But it's not

Her childhood, so terrible it was

None could face that amount of loss



The girl's mother was in her grave

Died at the hands of her father who treated the girl as a slave

He beat her delicate face every day

But no words ever came out of her mouth

For there was nothing she could say



Once she decided to throw herself into the river

So she could drown and leave this life forever

But a voice inside told her no

The voice wasn't hers

But it was calming and slow



Days after, she discovered more voices

One different from the other

But they all told her one thing-

Things would get better



One day, her father beat her again,

But the voice from the river now came out

That voice became a person and began to shout



The girl, proud of her voice

Took some clothes and a horse, and ran away

Because she would go anywhere but stay



She did not know where she was going to go

But she wanted to get away from that vile man she called father

She didn't care cause wherever she would be

Her voices would always be with her.



-Grisha. S

Into this world world will come,
A few,
Very precious souls.
Who  will not fit
Into your cookie cutter molds.
Yet,
To your ideals,
You try to make them hold.
And never realize,
They may be,
The purest form of gold