"haldol" poems
Love is a drug.
It's a depressant, stimulant & hallucinagen.
Love is an anxiolytic & antipsychotic,
It's a mood stabilizer & antidepressant.
Love is the treatment for my instability.
So where is my psycho-pharmacologist?
Where's my script for rose-colored glasses?
Doesn't he see that I need my Klonopin;
My Zoloft is running low.
My Haldol is depleted & my Adderal is out.
I'm shaking with anxiety
My depression's dragging my down
To the depths I just escaped.
I'm seeing things that shouldn't be.
And I'm running in circles, too afraid to stop.
Where is my psycho-pharmacologist?
Why won't he give me my daily dose,
One simple touch to give me sanity?
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
they say
that you are lazy
a glutton and a fool
no matter how you slice the roast
people can be cruel
I have a weight problem
have had all my life
on the yo-yo string of failure
folks, words cut like a knife
perhaps you saw my avatar
I was slender as can be
but now my weight is up again
and I cannot be me
unless I show my picture
as I am right now
I want you to see me
I want you to know
I'm as pretty now my friends
as I've ever been
my weight is not an issue
and it's not due to sin
I was on some heavy meds
Haldol and Xyprexa
so I'm a little overweight
I have a little extra
so check out my avatar
check it out and see
I may be a "weighty matter"
*but I'm still the same ol' ME!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/9/2016
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
Haldol is a psychiatric drug
for mental illness
that I am on,
and when it is mixed
with Zen,
a peculiar thing happens
in that everything
that Zen says to do,
I do the inverse,
so if Zen tells me to not think,
I think twenty-four hours a day,
and if Zen tells me
to eat health food,
I eat bologna sandwiches,
and if Zen says "No alcohol!",
I drink beer,
and if Zen says "No smoking",
I smoke two and a half packs
a day,
and if Zen says that everything
is impermanent,
I think
that everything is permanent,
and if Zen says
to quieten the mind,
I listen to a thousand voices
inside,
and it makes me happy,
and so,
there was beat Zen,
where anything goes,
and there is straight Zen,
where nothing goes,
and then,
there is haldol Zen,
where we go
in a completely different direction,
so, the moral
of this story is
you must find
where you're at.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
I didn't choose to be son of a scared Jew
and angry Irishman
who never laid a hand on her, even when
she turned the butcher knife on him
when he tried to stop her from slashing
her red wrung wrists
this spectacle in plain view of 5 children for whom "woe is the world" was daily refrain
I recall Father's blood trail on the concrete between our house and the neighbor's, a surgeon not expecting a bleeding Sunday guest,
but my mother's madness didn't rest on the Christian Sabbath, nor on her own
after that, the shrinks did their magic: Mom did the Mellaril march, the Haldol hop, the Stellazine stomp, and the less alliterative Thorazine shuffle
none of those chemically induced dances did a thing to increase the chances for my mother's salvation
soon she was behind the locked doors of "Ward 30," where I visited and Mom told me she had found Jesus
a befuddled revelation since I didn't know she was looking for him--her kin had hung him from a cross and taken the heat ever since
the doctors released her to the street, where she made misty retreat to the hills of Saint Francisco's bay
though she found faint solace in Pacific waters, she would never again see her sons or daughters
half a lifetime later, I found a long lost cousin my mother agreed to see, though not with me, for I was too much a reminder of scars which never heal
she sat with Mother near the end of days, sharing silence, the scent of Salisbury steak, and a view of the distant shore
as my patient cousin rose to leave, my mother finally spoke of a sea she watched turn from cerulean to indigo dusk
childhood beaches my mother did recall: the castles she did craft, the crawling ***** she did follow, the sun bathed sand where she made her bed
far from the one where she now lay, the one in which she would go smoothly into the night, perchance returning to blue waters, where hot blood trails cannot follow
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC
in a pale green room,
one sat, rocking slowly, an improvement,
the white ones said, but catatonic
was not a word she knew
another crouched in the corner, also swaying to and fro
her Haldol doubled the week before, so she stopped scratching her legs
but not before she had carved a Picasso on her thigh, a Dali on her calf
shit--there were no “cutters” then, black clad children who needed razors
we had our own claws
my cell mate rocked too,
in her sleeveless jacket, by the window,
where the mesh cut the afternoon sun
into dappled diamonds on her frock
the oldest woman in the world
crawled the linoleum highways counting each square
spouting off formulas, to prove the universe had order
though she did not have to say much to convince us
this was eons before “chaos theory” and we knew all the butterflies
flapping in all the world would not make a sound
their vibrations scarcely noted, and no hurricanes
would emerge from their winged tempests
I rocked too, and ****** my pants,
because I could, and if I did not, the white ones
and the zombie zoo doctor god, might decide
to release me to the warped world, where
I would be expected to never rock again,
where there would be no queen counting squares,
where the clock would try in vain to measure the sun
and the scent of ammonia would be replaced
by nothingness
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
each night
he would enter his boy's room
Bobby's tomb, he had come to call it
and turn the TV off
before remotes, 24/7 programming
and the infomercial, plump with desperate promises
the tube gave a final hail, the stars 'n stripes whipping, the national anthem screaming, and an anonymous promise
to return tomorrow in a perfect world
it would not be perfect for Bobby,
no matter how much thoughtless Thorazine,
hazy Haldol, or mesmerizing Mellaril
they shoved down his throat
now and then
before flipping the **** to off
he would sit with his sleeping son
stare into the screen, listen to its hissing;
he would swear he saw something
in the gray ocean of static
not trillions of senseless electrons
busy bouncing, but a lone sailor, rowing away
in a foaming sea, riding raging swells,
bound for a black horizon
one his tormented son
had reached long ago
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
The Bible has some interesting characters.
We can see in stanzas and rhymes
How they might have received some help
If they'd been living in modern times.
Lot, for example, had a drinking problem.
The man got drunk and slept with his daughter.
Actually with two! Advice to Lot:
Go to A.A. and stick with water.
An inferiority complex
Must have driven the angry Cain.
No matter what he did, he always
Seemed to incur God's disdain.
In searching for pairs of all animals on earth,
Noah's compulsion crossed the border
Of what today we would call
An obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.
Saul had to be extremely bipolar.
Talk about mood swings! On different occasions
He tried to **** David, who luckily escaped
By the skin of his teeth and with no abrasions.
If someone--like Solomon--had seven hundred wives
And three hundred concubines, we'd tend to say
That he had a number of serious issues,
But we don't want to go there today.
Moses talked to a burning bush,
Samuel and Elijah heard voices that told them
What to do. Now we’d say they
Were schizophrenic if voices controlled them.
Harod was really into himself;
He had to be highly narcissistic.
When Paul was persecuting the Christians,
His behavior was rather sadistic.
Without A.A. or psychiatrists,
Or drugs like Prozac, Zoloft, thorazine,
****** Haldol, Abilify, Lithium,
Seroquel, Xanax, Paxil, and clozapine,
Our Biblical characters were on their own--
To fend for themselves to carry out their mission,
Without medical insurance and someone
To say, "Get thee to a physician!"
- by Bob B
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC