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Kora Sani Feb 21
i want to write
but the words aren't coming

i'm feeling trapped
by my mind's inability
to translate my emotions
to letters with meaning

i write to understand
why i feel the way i do
i am the doctor
of my own thoughts

but if i cannot write
then i cannot understand
& if i cannot understand
then i cannot diagnose

so here i sit
with the same confusion
i began with

some words written before me
as useless as they come
accomplishing nothing
begging for everything
MJL Apr 1
It is confirmed
You have a highly aggressive form of ***


© 2019 MJL
Francie Lynch Apr 2017
Many believe they know the law
Because they were arrested;
Others know how to teach
Because they too were tested.
If you have a religious question,
They attended church;
Mention you've an ache or pain,
They diagnose your hurt.
Should you bring up politics,
Republican or worse,
They'll explain Democracy
Cause they've been free since birth.
Admit your car is pinging,
Your faucets aren't behaving,
The oven isn't cooking right,
Your fridge is warm and shaking,
The air conditioner's out of whack,
Your furnace has turned blue,
They'll tell you what to do:
Change the thermo-coupler.
It's always their one answer.
Say you like this stock or bond,
An investment that's appealing,
They'll  discourse that all agents
Are cunning conniving stealing.
On Monday mention the big game,
They'll re-play, play by play,
As if you slept right through it.
If you hear a rousing band,
Attend a movie or a play,
Know-its are informed critics,
Once they were stagehands.
They pose as friends and family,
Waiting for an opening,
To disrupt with diatribe,
To display how much they know.
I know what I'm on about,
So let me advise you,
I'm a Know-It-All poet,
All I write is true.
So,
Never miss the opportunity
To keep your mouth shut too
.
We all know them by name.
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
We need a biopsy
To diagnose hypocrisy
In American Democracy.
The evil Dr. Trump's creature, The Statue of Liberty, has melanoma, and it's spreading.
Bus-riding, crumb-counting hand wringers
Bibble-babbler, channel-flipper slogan slingers
Keep the volume loud enough to drown out the machines
That fill their cupped hands daily with excrement and dreams
These are the ****** of the canon

Button-pushing, lever-pulling product users
Wife-buying, tax-paying alcohol abusers
Emasculated monkeys done up in black and white
Clock in in the morning and flock home late at night
These are the ****** of the canon

Train-conducting, ring-leading hand shakers
String-fingered, queue-cutting, man makers
Drive home, cursing, lonely, breaking bones beneath their wheels
Without the time to diagnose that emptiness they feel
These are the ****** of the canon
Written over the course of a week or so on walks to and back from work.
Carter Ginter Mar 2013
These past few months,
I haven't been in a good place.
Driving myself mad,
Within my own head.
Isolation,
Aggravation,
Stuck in thoughts of the future,
Or of the past,
Never really living in the present.
I'd sunken into a pit of stress,
Slipping to the bottom,
Submerged,
Until stress was no longer on
a conscious level.

I felt lost.
Alone.
Empty.
Destroyed.
And under no control.
Had gone so far as to diagnose
myself with convinced issues.
When in reality,
I may just be the same,
as
every
other
typical
teenager.

While I still know not what is
wrong,
I will no longer sit back and let
it hold me down.
I'm going to either fight with what
I can
Or continue on smoothly.
No matter the direction,
I will find out eventually,
if I
really
have
just
Lost my mind.
Dougie Simps Aug 2017
Have you ever felt like you put on mask to hide what it is that truly eats you?
And gave everything you got to fight back  the moments that truly defeat you?
To wish upon a star that only occasionally shines
To pray to a angel who just no longer has the time
To wake up from nightmares while sleeping walking a dream
Hoping that this pretty world isn't as ugly as it seems
Am I a victim?
Course I'm a victim
I hear what you're saying doc
It's just easier not to listen
I'm looking back at the mirror
I see him clearer
He's the hatred I've had inside of me and I can feel him
Can you fix that?
Stop telling me to love my dad
It's easy to diagnose someone when you haven't walked a day in their past
I respect ya comments and cherish ya feedback
But you've never hated being half of what you are while fading back!
You've never took a pill to numb your open wound
You've never drank and wrote suicidal notes alone in your room
You've felt doom?
Tell me what it was like?
Did you forgive the outcome?
Or just enjoy telling me what's right?
Can't force a triangle into a square
Can't lead a army of broken hearts until you've felt despair
Don't you dare!
Sit there, look through me and stare
Come with me first
And I'll take you down the devils stairs
I'll show you lost
Show you pain and show you terror
Show you a little boy
Whose day's just never seemed to get better
I've given my all - I've tried my best and still came up short
I've married happiness - but never saw this sudden divorce
Forever I do!
I'd go back if she wanted me back
But the insecurities and memories get in the way of all that
Don't feel my pain!
Just look at me and smile back
I can't give in too this!
NO!
I will never do that
I've cried enough and ripped out plenty of hair
I've had a pity party! Sat alone, and pretended life wasn't fair
I've enjoyed the ride
Thought itd be better to die
I've broken promises - took a loss and even attempted to swallow my pride
I've yelled loud and did plenty that I'm not proud
I've had hope and more so even had doubt
I've had this - I've had that
No sense to repeating all that
I'm just done with the same story and continuing to look back
I'm sorry for my actions and questioning my reactions
Please just accept me!
It's simple and that's all that I'm asking
I've finally arrived
I'm here and so alive
I'm ready to get what I deserve
I'm ready for my time

The old me is dead, and that’s okay because...
I revived.
Not my best piece - guess I have writer's block
jeffrey conyers Sep 2018
If a doctor had to diagnose my heart.
They will find something that you should already know.

No mystery is hidden.
None at all.

And nothing new should emerge.
If they diagnose my heart.

What?
They will find are signs that you were loved.
If they diagnose my heart.

Same, if they diagnose my brain.
In it, they will find the same thing.
And from the investigation won't nothing change.
Willard Feb 6
I want lithium that tastes like
hair intertwined in chain link
on pedestrian bridges.

It'd be spit.
Your spit I swallowed
eyeing the eye of the storm

barefoot on Kombucha glass,
we both felt safe.
The bridge'd be destroyed eventually

but love's a greater monument
than cathedrals built with
taxpayer money and with

lips locked I'd have no
reason to scream
when winds break the trees

or the wind breaks me.
I'd stand my ground
magnetic banded

to the metal behind
what's in front of me
and I'll have the taste

of lavender and humidity
in my mouth instead
of my own blood.
I don't think you should go to therapy anymore.
Why? I was just starting to feel okay.
It seems to be making you worse.
Did you ever stop to think, that maybe you are
the reason that I'm getting worse?

If you need to be on medication, we can go to the local clinic,
they'll give it to you like they give to me.

Those women are not trained to diagnose depression,
they aren't licensed to diagnose anxiety. Or PTSD.


We just don't have the money to pay for appointments

Now you tell me the truth, yeah? That your cigarettes
and that disgusting beer is more important than I am?


It will be fine, honey. You don't need therapy anyway

*

It will be fine, huh? Really?
It will be fine when I stop caring about school anymore?
It will be fine when I cut myself to deal with the stress?
It will be fine when I have to keep everything inside,
because I'm scared if I vent to my friends too much,
that I'll scare them away? That I will lose them all?
It will be fine when I cry myself to sleep because
everything is starting to spiral downwards again?

So blame it on the therapy, blame it on the psychiatrist,
hell blame it on the medication if you so desire.
But you and I both know that therapy was never
the thing that was truly making me worse.
A little rant, if you will. It's by no means good, but I'm just in one of those moods. It will soon be a year since I stopped going to therapy. A year since I stopped taking antidepressants for my depression and anxiety. And I'm struggling.
Eryri Oct 2018
Don't get me wrong, the trip was a blast.
I loved the chatter and drinking,
The joking and the mishaps were hilarious.
Did I mention the drinking?

The heel snapping off your "good expensive" new shoe was a hoot,
As was the train letting everyone off but you!
Did I mention the drinking?

But when I get home something odd occurs,
A completely baseless melancholy descends,
Joined by a stubborn belly ache.
Was it all the drinking?

I am very lucky, I do not suffer with depression,
But I've noticed a pattern,
And diagnose the post-session blues.
It must be the drinking.
Emmanuella Jul 11
We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck
For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance,
think and talk through the side of her neck.
It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early,
For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts
And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!”
We would lean in and listen intently
But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous!
Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses,
She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray!
We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment.
For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak.

But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head;
For she was practically logical,
Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes.
Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground.
And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition.
Those times, there'd be surprise and awe.
Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge.
So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head;
And that is when we would cheer for her.

But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.
Inspired by the millennial expression: "Talking out the side of your neck" which means you are saying utter and total *******.
Johannah Jeanty Jan 2018
Is this a cure I'm seeking
Or someone to diagnose me?
Stuck in my own ballad,
Can't seem to set myself free,
Can't seem to set myself free...

Schizophrenia is killing me,
It makes me act so inhumane
Because I am an 'unknown' ******,
Living "life" is a real pain
I'm totally convinced that its driving me more insane
I need a change
I lost enough, let me gain.

Is this revenge I'm seeking
Or someone to advenge me?
Stuck in my own paradox
I wanna set myself free,
I wanna set my free..

Justification killing me,
But killing isn't justified!
What is happening to me, I am feeling so terrified
What do I do with all the hurt and pain?
Them, I just hide
Most times I cry
But I lock them all up inside.
Devon Carberry Nov 2018
XYZ
We move to the rhythm of the city
Beating to the waves of adrenaline, never pity.

I need to hold you close, this affliction is impossible to diagnose.

Trying to comprehend and begging Gods and Monsters that tonight will never end.

Our Sonic Youth cannot be contained,
Electronic and unashamed.

With brains that bleed idiosyncratically and make magic with words or a pen,

Hands that turn a gin and tonic into something drastically more chronic.

The solution to the problem is that the cause is quite solemn.

Leave everything behind for a new place;  taste your favorite stranger's face.

Let them know that their perfume can light up a whole room.

We're searching for the people we've been our whole lives, in structures we do not recognize.

Know that most women that dream only survive on nicotine,

Slow Dancing in the Dark just to feel Nevermore than a spark.

This is how it feels to be unreal, when your entire body becomes brittle steel.

Don't let the season tantalize your demons.

If you can feel your own unapologetic heart, realize that this is just the start.

And when you're tired of leaving, run.
Elinor Jul 2018
To the two boys who think I owe them something.
My heart doesn't belong to either of you,
and your spindly fingers clenching it
don't look enough like ribbon
to fool me into thinking that
my love is a gift to you.
To the two of you,
so willing to give me
your monthly allowances of text messages
yet not your loyalty.
For thinking that an "honest" apology
fixes me having to question why
just me was never good enough
for either of you.
You were both greedy,
you always wanted more.
Now run free and fill your stomach with all the flavours that will burn your taste buds and scorch your tongue.
To both of you for being willing enough to open my box with a key that I never gave you,
rifle through my thoughts and feelings,
and not even open your ears to them,
leaving the lid off
and the contents strewn across your floor.
For offering to help me pick them back up again,
but only because my "small, little arms" are not strong enough to carry my own weight that I've carried for
fifteen years on my own.
Here's to both of you for putting me down about being small.
That is NOT my fault.
I have a mighty big cathedral for a heart and a generous brain
and that's all within 5"2.
It doesn't make you any bigger than me
(metaphorically).
Your few feet advantage doesn't give you
the power above me,
even if you can see the roots of my hair in more detail
than you would ever care to observe
the fault lines of my cracked smile.
Boys are being taught that
to love me
is to fix me,
that I am some kind of messy enigma,
a project, a goal.
I'm just a girl with a family, a girl with a head, with a spiders web of veins and a lifetime of lessons that I'm opening my arms and my heart to.
You mistake yourself for a lesson,
when I'm fully qualified to teach myself.

You diagnose yourselves
as "depressed".
Mental illness is not an accessory,
nor a quirk to make you seem more vulnerable to me.
Don't brandish it in the air,
it is not a weapon against me.
It doesn't make you adorable,
or some kind of cuddly bear boy.
Everything that's
"killing you"
is just as toxic to me.
You set my skin into blue flames
because I won't give myself to you.
No,
no,
no.
I'm tangled in my rejection,
and it thickens.
I can't be with you out of pity.
My guilt, raging deep within my bowels,
marching violently through my organs,
exploding into a supernova of
thinking that love and guilt are almost the same thing.
"I'll do anything",
I don't want anything from you.
"I'll write you a poem because I know how much you love that."
I also love being respected but neither of you ever gave me that.
My craft is not a tool of trickery,
and your words not a trance.
"I'm not like him".
But you still act like my skin is a carpet to your home,
and you walk across it with muddy boots.

You think you're a blanket to keep me warm,
but you ended up suffocating me.
To the boys who think I owe you them something,
go home.
all my poems have been long lately,
but I have a lot to say,
so I'm not sorry.
I feel as if I am trapped in this box,
Where everyone else has put me
But I know I don’t belong.

Suffocated - they make me feel it,
I can’t stand existing inside this bubble:
The walls are thick, there’s no way out,
It’s the home of the unfound,
Where they put people like me who they can’t make sense of,
Patients they can’t diagnose unless it’s with the term “functional.”
I know there are others,
But I feel so alone,
Isolated from being understood
By the only people who are able to help me.

They won’t help me,
I try to fight back, I try to scream
Either no one hears me, or they take it as a mark of insanity.

It’s hard to speak up,
When you know the process all too well,
You walk in, they repeat things that hurt you (psychosomatic), and then you walk out,
Though you don’t know how,
Because inside you’re torn down again,
Answers aren’t found and each time is worse,
You’re still struggling but they insist
That you’re as healthy as you’ve ever been,
So once again you’ve been missed,
By professionals trained to catch out illness.

Every time your reality trips you down again,
You repeat the words they told you:
“You’re fine,”
You tell yourself you can do it
-But not out of encouragement,
Instead of disdain, because when no one acknowledges you
Why should you not question yourself?
We are taught from a young age these are the people you should depend on and treat with respect,
So even when they toss you aside:
Remember to say “thank you” and walk out with a smile,
Seeing as they believe that you really are wasting their time.

This is what nightmares are made of,
Except when you’re both asleep and awake
It’s always still there.
It’s hard enough passing each day this way,
But without an ounce of recognition,
I wonder why I should even stay.

I don’t want to do this anymore,
But still I have to knock on doors,
Basically asking people to reject what I live,
Constantly trying to prove that I’m sick,
To countless people who don’t give a ****.
It’s already too much effort existing like this,
Yet I have to get out of my bed to prove it,
Even though each time they write an essay about me being fine,
Or maybe a few words because I’m such a waste of time.
I face what I fear everyday because my health’s at fault,
Yet they say it’s not really at all.
It’s been a year and they still have the audacity to tell me,
It’s because I’m not coping mentally.

Maybe I am a mess psychologically,
But I want you to know, it’s only because of them.
I would be stable, I’d be perfectly fine,
If they didn’t keep coming around telling me my efforts are wasted,
That I just can’t deal with my mind no matter how much I already put in,
So clearly I will just never be fixed.
It’s what they’ve told me though, it’s all of their responses and words,
That made me question my sanity,
That dredge up all of my anger for them,
Because not one bit of acknowledgement did they spread.

So here I lay,
Stuck in this box where no one can see me,
I can’t fix myself because - it wasn’t my state of mind that was broken.
I’ve been here for four-hundred-and-seventeen days,
Where I try to imagine a future where I’ll be safe,
But the trauma of looking for a diagnosis I know will stay,
Because they told me it was only caused my trauma in the first place,
But the only kind I’ve experienced
Is the kind they inflicted whilst I was already suffering.

— The End —