When I awake in the day, all is blank.
Pills, shower, school, work; a common routine, but one easily forgotten when you cannot differentiate between here and now.
Walking through the mall, wondering if I tumble over the rail in a haze of blood and screaming will I finally see stars again.
What a silly though; so instead, The hairs on my head are steadily ripped out in between my dull fingernails and wisp away to the ground.
Soon it leads to forgetting how to drive, to brush my teeth to speak.
Standing idly by while the world turns and twists and gravity keeps me grounded, but my brain is in another dimension, as an imaginary deity I cannot keep believing in.
Voices, fingertips, the trees and leaves all have it out for me, touching me and surrounding me until I collapse, into the street somewhere, late at night after the cars and people have all long since fallen under.
Did I sleep through work? Or did I even sleep?
Did I remember to eat today?
Slowly turning black, staring in the mirror with the lights off and I am in hell when I turn them on.
How many hours does one ever recall?
Thousands, some say, but what hours do we choose to hold?
Psychosis grips me like an angry father scolding his young child, topples me over like the Tower of Babylon, entangles me in an ocean of disconnection that ends with me coming back to the surface by banging my head on the door and punching picture frames.
When I crash my car into the ditch down the street and I feel blood trickle into my eye from the windshield kissing my head, I am not shocked, I don't even remember how I got there.
When I drown in cheap whisky and prescription pills, I fear not for my fate because I have forgotten I even have one.
When my lungs burn with harsh smoke of unfiltered cigarettes, I don't cringe, for my lungs only know to inhale the harm, and not breathe.
I don't know when I will remember to live. But I hope it is before I die.

Abilify
you seemed to amplify
the monster inside me

Vivid dreams
of a devil in the driver seat,
Mirrored back
in my rearview, 
on the way to a crime scene
in my mind
where one of our sisters
was given plastic surgery
via shotgun

A crackling static
tears through my brain
and takes me
to the Ideation of 
self-inflicted martyrdom

Idealized death
put on a pedestal

hanging
in a basement
Of the subconscious

Until I wake up and suffer

I've
Had enough of
the akathisia

I can’t ******* sit still
I feel like 
my heart is going to beat out of me
When I’m already light-headed
I see me from outside me

Depersonalized!
this blood is poisoned 
with restless impulses

I can’t fight
or flight
just freeze 
and pulsate
an S.O.S.
to the telegraph 
at the other 
end of this the 
other half of
This sorry soul:

*If pain is a void 
I can feel you missing 
Where the doctor
Filled the hole
With prescriptions.

Will you hold me,
hold me,
until these looping
distress calls
cease?

what a beautiful sight, you should have seen
the blood! should have seen the anger and bitter hot tears
and shiny metal
and swollen lips from biting as if
you're trying to shut that voice up inside you because they
speak through you through your mouth and
red lips, teeth
use your tongue and chest shout for them to go away
its not working, it never works
but you won't stop trying and you want
your veins to run hollow and to bleed yourself dry
because you feel like an empty shell
the only thing inhabiting you is
the harsh voices
but they are
unwanted and they are bad news
and you don't know if you should stand up or not
or if that will increase blood flow because you will fall over
and see white dots like
fairy kisses in your eyes and on your skin and God won't
accept you to heaven because you've been told
killing yourself is a sin
but is hell really that bad because you already feel you are there
when really your heart is still beating and your
brain is still thinking
and your arms are still bleeding and you're still shouting
at everything to
please
be quiet just for a moment
to get everything straight

but you're not allowed to leave so you're staying on Earth
and you're so used to the voices you often get mixed up
which ones are real and which ones are in my head?
a very common and almost daily question you ask
yourself and sometimes others without realising

and what is it about depression being beautiful so maybe
one more tear and one more cut will make people like you
and boys and girls are not just going to be able to fix you just by
holding the key to your heart so stop thinking
the reason you're sad is because you're used or single because
people in relationships are just as sad as you and you are still bleeding and your
heart is still beating and maybe
sweetheart it wouldn't hurt to
sit down.

Splattered
Like spaghetti sauce
On a baby's white highchair-

That's your inner life.
Red, dried, this is going to stain.

You swallowed bullets, and then they shot inside you.

Like an old broken computer,
You're bigger, and you look fine,
but you whir (and hum) at the slightest touch;
overheating.

Like not wearing underwear under your clothes,
everything is scratchy and a little raw and you feel more vulnerable.

You feel everyone must know. How could they?

Only if they notice.
Or
If they lure you into taking off those "I've got it together" clothes.
Which nobody can do anymore.
Because ******, you're going to integrate that ****.

Wear that rawness like the Emperor in his new clothes.
Be your own mischievous taylor.
Laugh like a baby at the spaghetti stain.
Spit the bullet shards out
at kids so they don't do the same thing you did.

Although I know
Why the sky is blue
I understand me
And I understand you
I stay confused
Self-abused and bruised
Why?
Now I know
I need to go
And learn
Something new
Or
Something anew

Sean Hunt March 6 2016

To be psychotic is to be
Free
To dance in rain and in shine, naked
To sleep wherever the head might rest
To wander, make fun of people
To live indeed.

To be psychotic is to be
Free
To dream of absurdly great things and not care
To own as many imaginary friends as possible;
Cos at least they are real with you
To love wholesomely and to hate, unabashed
To live indeed

To be psychotic is to be
Free
To create a reality and live in it
To think whatever about oneself and not
Care about being judged
To live indeed

To be psychotic is to be
Free
Of clothes, their costs and attachments
Of self-judgements of self appearance
To fight the air or run a personally organized race
To live indeed.

So pray tell,
What is the extent you would go
To live? Indeed.