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All his senses
hyperactive.
Eyes open, fixed on a light, blue chair.
The black-coated people, silent companions to him
in the office.
He is half inside
full of flesh on the outside,
believes he is undestructable.

The words, that fly out of his mouth
chewed up, broken  like his soul,
broken down to mgs of clozapine.

Lack of sleep, the benzos failed to work.
REM cycles are out of stock
and alternatives are unavailable.

The living nightmares are his companions;
in his eyes a blank stare of someone
lost.

He looks around for a couple of
seconds as if he does not listen to
the questions, he is being asked.
He open-closes his orbits
rapidly in a mors-code fashion
to someone out of sight.

The family he never had,
he created in his mind.
From loneliness they protect him,
the voices never leave his
side.

Phone rings, the alienist answers.
I leave my notes to the side and
observe his movements.
For a moment
he turns towards me,
appearing emotionless,
then looks back.


Rain pouring on thirsty soil,
cats meowing free
outside the white-walled cages.
'The building (opposite this white hole we are in)
is it a new build?' he asked looking through the
window.

Flight of unlinked thoughts;
from electromagnetic fields
to dealthlessness.
No gun can **** him,
no family there for him.
The brother, he forgot
and no recollection of
the court order that put him
behind bars.

The TV box inside his head
always on, playing a movie on repeat.
A medicated, anhedonic protagonist
on a road of no return.
Shila Jan 11
Empty
She hears nothing
She sees nothing
Just a very dark place

Come here
The voice calls
It's happiness
She flies toward it, with light feelings, while smiling but-

Come here
Another voice calls
It's loneliness
She stops midway
"I'll be right back", she tells happiness
She goes to loneliness with wide arms opened
She was nearly embraced loneliness when

Come here
She hears another voice calling her
It's sadness
She stops.
"Sadness needs me", she whispers to loneliness
And she steps towards sadness
Loneliness tries to hold on her, but she didn't see it

Can you come here?
One more voice calls
She stops again, looking for the voice
It's confusion
She becomes baffled
She wonders whether sadness will be fine
If she goes to confusion now

No, don't!
Come here instead!
One more voice calls!
She turns and look at anger.
She looks at confusion and then anger
What is she supposed to do now?

Come here!
Come here!
Come here!
Come here!
Come here!
Come here!

Emptiness, happiness, loneliness, sadness, confusion, and anger call her
At the same time
Simultaneously
She keeps running and running
In circle
Meets no end
Everytime she reaches the borderline, she runs towards different directions
She keeps running

And she hears one more voice

You don't belong anywhere
Finally, frustration says it
She fell down in despair

Come here
She feels cold fingers around her shoulders
She looks up
There stands the death
Giving her the dullest stares
And creepiest smile
My psychiatrist diagnosed me from borderline personality disorder (BPD), and I've always have thought it was bipolar disorder. She explained to me that these both disorders are totally different.
Sean Jun 2018
It corrupts you
Losing control of soul
It hurts you
Slowing your growth
It maims you
Stealing your heart
One day people will see
Until then I fight
Because of one reason
It's not me
It's not psychiatry
It's that there is a way of seeing
A way of not seeing
And my mortal enemy is
The anti-fam
So I take war on
The war for eternity
Corruption or not
You know you agree
Camila Jun 2018
I really dont know how to put what I'm about to say in a way that sounds like poetry without leaving stuff out and I think this is an important issue that must not be left to interpretation of the reader (like poetry does).
I wrote a poem almost a year ago (its down here somewhere) about a friend that commited suicide (I will call him R from now on) and even though I still think about him constantly this past week he's been more in my mind, I dreamed about him last week and woke up in tears and then I heard about Kate ***** and Anthony Bourdain, I talked to some friends and they were thinking more about him these past days sooo.... background story.
I'm a doctor, I'm a resident. I'm lucky enough to say I have a lot a good friends some of them are my med school classmates, R was one of them.
After graduation we all pursued doing a residency and thankfully we all got into what we wanted, most of my friends, including R, got to stay in the same city we all studied together, which was nice because most of their families lived there and they didnt have to pay rent and stuff like that.
A few months before the residency program began R called me and said the most shocking thing, he confessed to me that he had been diagnosed with depression during our third year in med school and that he was doing well enough that his psychiatrist considered he didnt need medication anymore, but was going to keep an eye on him in case he needed them again, he had been off the medication for 8 months by the time he called me and this were his exact words after he said all that to me "I know I'm not okay, and I know this because I have everything I ever wanted, I have friends that I love, I have an amazing family, I have the career that I want, I got accepted into the program I worked so hard for and still I think it would be better to die, and it scares me a lot" I talked to him until his mom got home so I knew he was safe, the doctor gave him medication again and he was good to go. Two years passed and then he decided he wanted to go into Neurology and he got accepted into the most important hospital in the country, that was in another city so that meant he had to live on his own for the first time in his life, and get another doctor there, I called to congratulate him a week before he left, that was on February, we made plans to see each other in July.... he died in May.
Why do I think this is important?
1. My friend didn't look sad, he was always smiling, he gave the warmest, longest hugs and when he told me he was sick I was shocked that he had been going through this for three years without anyone noticing.
2. He was very aware of his disease and he knew he had a lot to be happy about. So this proves that it can happen to anyone and is not about feeling sad for a certain situation, like getting bad grades or having a breakup. Its not something you fix by "focusing on the good things".
3. Another friend was feeling weird and she told me she was trying to "shake those feelings off" until he remembered R and decided it was best to seek for help, she was diagnosed with anxiety and started getting treatment.
4. Another one told us he was feeling very bad, like if he was not being himself, and that he was thinking about going to a psychiatrist, because he was scared of going through what R went.
5. I miss R everyday and he left a huge hole to fill, and there are so many things that remind me of him and that I wish I was able to tell him right know but at least he opened the eyes of the ones that were close to him and made a few of us do and internal check up and actually pushed others to get help.

My message for you who read this is dont be ashamed of asking for help and dont make others feel ashamed, encourage people to know that the mind gets sick too, just like the heart, and the stomach and any other ***** in your body. R knew people loved him, R knew he was lucky to have the life he had and still his mind and his depression made him think it was not worth it to keep on living.
Its been a year since he left and he is still making impact on all of us who where lucky enough to know him
Robert Cayne Feb 2018
Ghostly by the decaying remnants
Of a human's past,
Awake in the artifice,
In this gothic museum, We learn
Through those lambasted, ***** coral eyes,
Lives A ****** in sterilized porcelain.

Attest not to what is in the background,
The artwork. In the foreground of the clinic is
Satan's work.

Like a curator of convalescence,
Who (as if to) merge the jelly of the gourd
With the opaque hollow body
I seek ownership of myself
Through being owned by another.

Somewhere someone is shown a space.
Their *****, mangled, convulsed self
In a rage of discontent In the cage.

Here the rage is in the spoiling of
The sacred ****** in us all,
The sounds are not our sounds.
The sights are not our sights.
museum, satan, orphanage, hospital, lost, chaos, devastation, psychiatry
certifiednutcase Nov 2017
I walk round
And round
And round
Hoping to hit my ten
Thousand steps.
How many calories does that
burn?

I end up eating
And eating
And eating
All 3 meals they serve
Me. Do I deserve
This?
How many calories do they
Have?

I lay and think
And think
And think
Why am I still
Alive?
Why did I not ****
Myself
Right
This
Time?
Just random thoughts while walking around the psychiatric ward.
Temporal Fugue Oct 2017
We could go into the psychology, of a given situation
tell ourselves it's all in fun, a self, examination

Turning all the terminology, into a game of mind
pretend that it's not disturbing, of the scary kind

Mentally we'll cruise the path, the one close, too insane
postulating other choices, maybe not so good, or tame

Conclusions derived from normalcy, and all the way too crazy
we could do all this, if we, weren't so gosh **** lazy
Heheh
I believe, that psychiatry is best done alone, and, without a Psychiatrist  ;D
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