"cbt" poems
'Nothing bad is going to happen'
is the alternative thought that
I wish would stop me bleeding.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
Write me a meal plan in bright red pain
And tell me this is the answer to all my problems again
Force down a tube through my nose and into my stomach
And watch as I flummox out of control
Fill this gaping hole inside of me
With drugs and sedation
Numb out pain and realisation
Force feed me promises and a smile
Only to regress back in a while.
Fill these cracks
With temporary fixtures
Concoctions of pills and other mixtures.
Treat me with CBT and psychotherapy
Tell me one day ill be free
And maybe if you say it enough times
Ill start to believe it
As much as you say you do.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
I gave him eighteen years, thousands in gas money, and more music than he deserved, and all I got in return was a subscription to Fox News– which, by the way, is a complete ******** “thank you” gift because you can fool yourself into believing anything.
"You know what's going to happen tomorrow? Rain!" when in fact I'm certain its going to be a scorcher.
He sits bedside, making horrible jokes and bringing up remember-that-times. When will he ever pay the rent? Even though he doesn’t sleep here– he never sleeps– he should at least pay me in something other than beheading-dreams. And in the shower we review ****** flaws, and in the mirror we recount all the mean things I ever said or did to him for being such an insufferable *******
“Stop it.”
He looks uncomfortable, not as sure of himself. He ponders what I meant for a while, opens his mouth to rebut and gets another stop it.
“Stop it. Get a job.” Because he contributes nothing.
“But you should…”
“Stop it. Get a job, because all I’m gaining from us right now is a bunch of lies. Quit watching Fox News.”
“Listen here, ******
“Stop it. Get a job. Quit watching Fox News.” And he leaves for a couple hours.
He knocks.
“Stop it.”
The knocking stops.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
another door closed
another community mourns
a macabre picture on a frame
for a tear stained love to find
once crafted by his own hand
not twelve months since
now a final resting place
marked by a note in steady pen
and why should it take
an angel of the epihany
to deliver a man in a plastic bag
to teach us of cbt
of an emotional intelligence
to be mindful of ourselves
while church, state, school fails
this country's young men
for generations and on
the silence does creep
so many futures in the past
too many paths closing so fast
there are so many questions
that sustain this male disease
silence never speaks in answers
or hears society's griefful pleas
today in another village
tommorow yet another town
a young man fits an attic joist
with silent eyes so cold
for jesus he was a carpenter
or so at least we're told
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
I made a vision board
in CBT therapy
four years ago
I pasted a Keaton Henson quote
“I think a lot of art is trying to make someone love you”
on my board
I just thought it was a nice quote
My therapist then proceeded to tell me
not to create for anyone else
but myself.
I proceeded to not listen.
I’m still writing poems about you
I’m still drawing your hands
I’m still in love
and we haven’t talked in years.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
It's a small bar,
with old wooden tables
and no music:
I like to get a break sometimes
and I come here every Sunday
after my CBT sessions.
The waitress smiles.
She is Spanish too but
(it's that white mist
taking over my mind again)
I can't articulate
and I just speak English,
hoping she doesn't notice
my accent.
When she brings me
a dark decaf coffee,
even if I have asked
for a decaf tea,
and I taste it,
and it tastes horrible,
I lose balance and stumble
for a moment
("you are going to fail",
and "this is all your fault",
and "just let it go, don't move,
it'll pass").
It is such a small detail
in the grand scheme of things,
but this decaf coffee, this black mist,
makes me feel that
there is something wrong with me.
I look through the window:
across the road, a student residence,
all windows and shining glass.
A girl goes up the stairs
with a blue basket in her hands;
she is probably doing the laundry.
Another girl leans on the sill,
and smokes. I invent a life for them,
and it's a good life - a life to praise.
I want to go back to Uni, I think,
and for a moment I feel safe, and warm.
("Never mind,
I'm too old, after all").
I pay for the coffee and leave.
In two hours, she'll have clean clothes,
and I don't know where I'll be
(especially on days like these,
when my mind feels heavy,
and weak).
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
For about two years it crushed me and me under its control.
Preying on my weaknesses and craftily infiltrating my mind, just like a mole.
It was trying to set up shop and stop me from living.
Like Groundhog day, it felt like each terrible day, I kept reliving.
I knew if I didn't do something, I may slowly lose my mind.
I had to make the effort and see what help and support I could find.
It was time to try things like CBT and medication.
It was time to get back to enjoying my life; and not be ruled by trepidation.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
So, here I am back in retail
after thirty years of I.T.
They sat me down at a puter
training, they called CBT's
The whole day staring at pixels
answering silly questions and queries
I thought I retired from this venue
so now I've come up with this theory
No matter what we do
no matter how hard we shirk the chains
everything runs in circles
what goes around comes round
again
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC