"medial" poems
I want to live in a world
where I can be proud
of my body
And not fear that I’m a 12, not a 2
and accept myself.
I want to live in a world
where men are valued
on television
And women are not always supreme
in their tiny dresses.
I want to live in a world
where I do not have to fear
for my saftey
And not have to tell a friend I’m going
for a walk.
I want to live in a world
where I can walk home alone
at night
And not have every creak, every thud
set me on edge.
I want to live in a world
where gender equality
is real
And is not split through medial portrayal
and unsafe reality.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
Dear Talia,
I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.
The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.
This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.
I want it to be Christmas already.
The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.
I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.
I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.
You.
It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.
I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.
I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:
I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.
My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."
I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.
I hope that was okay.
I love you.
Yours,
Joshua Haines
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
I am from tiny small town where a mountain looms above the village. The height of the hill prevents the eye of heaven from shining. Yet the winter night persuade its day to set early.
I am from the land of ****** bliss than the internal. Love and tenderness is the first option to suffocate… Jealousy, Hatred, and disrespect amalgamated where I am from.
Yet, I am from where I come from. My town, My Kasi, My land, my soil.
I am from a village like town right in the medial of lowland of mount horeb Between the Drakensberg.
Where the beautiful daffodils grow
Just beside the stream that flows gradually, giving the inner roots opportunity to select its necessities.
“I am from small family in the medial of Clarens.”
I am from family full of love and affection. Ubuntu and joy perfect its image. Yet we are not that bold to be in everyone’s Eyebrow, but I am from the family of Lengau.
The only unique family from love to respect.
I am from the family of MaLengau, the loving and caring woman of Bakoena. I am from the family of four gentle guys and three ladies.
I am from Clarens, town among towns…
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
organized energy
does much to paint the cerebral pallet
in artificial colors of chaos
rewritten, recycled
for the next realist to suddenly realize
and uneasily come to terms with
and quite possibly never think about again
for the sake of safe and sane disposition
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Today I found out
Why I am stuck in
Repeating loops of
Thought about life,
Mistakes we make -
My Dorsomedial Pre-frontal Cortex ;
is screaming inadequacy
My Ventromedial Medial Pre-frontal cortex ;
is occupying every cells (so selfish)
My lack of Lateral Pre-frontal Cortex
&
Flickering,
Neural Paths
So,
You Were Right,
You Were Right,
You Were Right.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
I miss you,
And I'm up in arms
Over something my brother said.
See I've have things I
Struggle with
Almost constantly,
Like because I have a handful of mental illnesses,
Does that make me bad?
Or do my illnesses
Make me insane?
Or does my illness
Mean I'm held
More or less accountable
For things I can't control?
Having been abused,
Does that mean I'll repeat the cycle?
Or does it my mental illness
Make me so?
I'm up in arms
For having been accused
Once or twice
Of using someone as a punching bag,
But she fails to remember
The majority of our Junior and Senior
Years,
When she would gladly rip into me
All because she felt it was right,
During her time of month.
Not to say it was right,
It wasn't right,
For me to treat her poorly
As I tried to survive,
But either way,
There were ways to end a friendship
Better than her falsehoods.
And I'm up in arms,
Because I'm on the defensive,
And I'm scared I'm not my best,
And I know in real, grown up love,
So they say,
You're supposed to stick by someone
Even at their worst.
And I'll stick by you,
Easily.
It won't be difficult for me.
I've seen some things.
But I don't want you
To ever see me
At my worst,
So I'm up in arms,
And I'm scared,
And I'm considering
Getting the deep insides
Of my medial temporal lobe
Removed.
Just remove
The limbic system.
I don't know.
Nightmares and memories
At every turn.
I have to go back
To that hell hole
For half an hour tomorrow.
I'm honestly terrified.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
Tonight I hacked the **** out of
The medial portion of my right anterior brachium.
Just to torture myself
In a place that wasn't used to it.
The blood spilled in streams
Little specs flicked from a blade
Sprinkled on my fingertips,
Spread across my hollow hands
And dripped peacefully beneath me
To pool in my lap like a
Beautiful collection of art
Each rich drop.
I couldn't tell you what it feels like
To be in pain
Because I couldn't tell you what it feels like
To not
Be
In pain.
My self destruction is my only
Salvation.
So I dug that sharp metal through
These unsuspecting layers of frail flesh
And separated mind and body-
Tearing at the tendonous fibers
'Til an erosive eruption of blood gushing
Snap, and I could almost ******* laugh
At
The
Fact
That I could not feel one thing in me.
Couldn't feel a razor 6 inches in skin
Like I wouldn't feel weight on my chest
Buried 6ft deep in dirt.
So I burned away at my being
With a fury painted red and left me
Numb.
And you ask me why I
Worship pain, it is not
To feel something, it is only to
B L A C K O U T
Cause I'd like to be dead
But instead
I take advantage of myself
When I can't hurt anyone else
But I
Can't
Help
Hurting
Because it will crawl out of
My torn skin
And infect everything around me
I'd drown me
In my own ******* blood
If I could.
But I can't, so
I'll sure as **** take this chance
To cut my head off with
My own hands,
And maybe one day
I'll just
Bleed
Out.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
We live our darkest moments in the medial state
Between rest and motion our inertia kicks in
Our brightest seconds are shared with others
But our demons wait to catch our ankles alone
So we may trip into their clutches for an evening
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
I’m suffering in silence
Because you don’t
Want to be a inconvenience
What about me
I have no medial training
But I got to do open
Heart surgery on myself
So I don’t become bitter
And folk don’t know
That I’m really broken
& hurt
What about me
They ruin my life
And go on as
If nothing has happened
And here I am
Picking up the pieces
And I’m the one
That loves you
What about
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 10:11 PM UTC
I don't even know where to start.
yesterday, I wanted to die.
today, I don't want to **** myself
but
that's not to say
I'd be upset
if something else killed me.
living with depression
id say
is just being a realist.
its not
some voice in my head
telling me I'm worthless
it's realizing
that unless I'm on drugs
my entire life
will consist
of
never having enough money,
never loving myself,
never loving living
how can anybody love living?
like, is my life a satire?
why am I attached to this consciousness
I didn't ask to be here
destroying
this planet
and myself
and others
while watching every other human
do the same.
when I was younger
when my family went out to eat
my mother would have to
use menus to divide
the table
so that my sister and I
would stop disrupting dinner.
we would make faces
and laugh the whole time
and be really rude
and loud.
my sister is my depression
I am my anxiety
and my mother
is nowhere to be found.
they rile each other up.
my anxiety
gets excited
yelling at me
telling me all the ways I'm horrible
all the people I have hurt
every
bad thing
I've ever done
my depression
chimes in
and says
"how about
how you pathetically
seek attention from everyone
while
being in denial of it.
do you think that if,
a thousand other people
tell you they like you,
and that you are beautiful,
you will believe it?
how pathetic."
that
takes anxiety on a whole new ride
with a billion other reasons
on how I'm pathetic.
yesterday,
they were louder than ever.
closing my store
took every ounce of effort
I had
and it's a simple job
reflex memory, even
I was reaching
far down inside of me
for the strength
to not crumple into a ball
and cry
until the custodian swept me up
and threw me away
with the other trash.
I talked to myself
telling myself
"you can do it,
you can do it,
there you go!
good job, almost there -"
"look at how pathetic you are
have to talk to yourself
like a ******* child
to get yourself to do
the most medial -"
"NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.
SHUT UP. NO.
SAVE IT FOR LATER.
BEAT YOURSELF UP
LATER
BECAUSE RIGHT NOW
YOU ARE DOING
A GOOD JOB"
afterwards
I cursed myself
for judging
any crazy person I saw
muttering to themselves
because now,
I am the crazy one.
my fourth favorite poet
Andrea Gibson
said,
"I thought I hit rock bottom -
but then it hit back."
same, girl.
I can't fight well
but I will try
to deflect these punches
as best as I can
until I can get my legs
to finally run away.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
Take place in this space
You've been here before
You're tasting more than torn tissue
Forewarning lies
And pies constructed of ties lost
But,
What you mostly taste is
Bastings of waste
And Hastings of what you should've done or could've done
Maybe yesterday or when you threw away your hippocampus two nights ago
So maybe you threw away your whole medial temporal lobe
But, your face is established of smiles
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 12:42 AM UTC
You will not understand my bible.
Nor my religious ensemble
Because the experience of man
Should not stockade the lamb.
The holiest of holy
Will not coax with their folly;
Instead we laugh,
We laugh at a deity so far off,
Living with guilt.
A primal lapse of living with out.
Attached to the congruent self,
The belligerent nod waging fear over life.
Smearing adverse anxiety.
We negate self love willingly;
So love is not the engine,
A beat down city pigeon,
Feathers plucked by famine,
Limping upon a drudged talon.
Wings clipped by obscurity;
Disheartened, love preys on insecurity.
So we listen
Without reason
Waiting for a faint voice
A hidden angel of observance
Vanquished to your medial
Awaiting resurrection of denial
Denouncing the paved road
Shedding the serpents load
A callous exterior
Boxing the ulterior
When you fathom this ensemble
When you see a flaming candle
A string thwarted in wax
Melting away the complex
And when you fall for the fable
You will understand my bible
A clean page
With each teaching sage
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
incite expletive
insides erupt
medial temporal
mediates chaotic
administers quell
regain yourself
doctor jekyll
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
I
Pluperfection of the past
A passive exists yet not to be
King to corruption to the loved
Dogma in the barbarian’s anarchy
II
New pages to fill
Old ways to rebuild
A birth irreplaceable by mockery
The earth salted yet again
III
Superimposition ex hollow, hallowed knowledge.
Power in our holy heresiarchy
Fire in the humble hearts of our pious clergy
Closure in our medial devotions
IV
Nocturnality, of the space between passivity.
Thoughts of past and future orders.
Magnificent putrefaction of our holy books
Together beyond the demon-blinded sun
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
war paint stains the
clothes i don.
it is old but lives on
in what comes to mind.
there was rot on
the battlefield. it is
stuck in my nose i cant
help but smell it
when i breathe.
i cant believe i
dwell in the past
like it has anything for me.
we do share a similar
sensibility and some
unfortunate similarities.
//
the best part of jumping off a bridge
is that everyone says you regret it
the second you do.
just another reminder
that we're all scared to die.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC