"psychiatric" poems
**The band starts playing at a ***** and crowded backyard.
Rebellious youth gather to cast their vote with the stomping of their doc martin boots.
Beer cans everywhere, everyone's trying to let loose the raw stranglehold their society has produced.
The guitars go off and the ritual begins.
First they assemble in the heart of the pit.
In the center individual tragedies bring fourth the wrath of a God's army.
Anarchy you call it, Ha! I call it reassurance, reassurance that this anger is surely communal.
I never saw it more clearer, the youth's power to resist: If the government wont hear us, we will create our own sound even under the batons of fascism, we spit on your rule, your control of our art.
We wont bow down to a law with our names written all over it, while another politician walks free from corruption.
While another officer guns down an un armed child and calls it self-defense.
While suspicious mass shootings continue to occur and mass cameras grow in recording.
While you send more people off to war for another countries resources.
These thoughts explode out of me into shoves, screams, ****** cuts, reckless behavior, and then finally release. Pure psychiatric release.**
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Bipolar, if you had asked me what I knew about it six months ago I would have said it means that a person goes from being really happy to really sad sometimes or, if I would be honest I would have said I hadn't a clue about it.
Bipolar means to touch heaven and hell.
This year began with me being in a severe depression, often holding a loaded gun to my head with a finger lightly depressing the trigger. Bipolar, after all, is the highest killer of all psychiatric illnesses with 1 out of 5 committing suicide and 1/2 attempting it. I felt completely alienated from anyone- severely out of place in the world, as if my birth was some sort of horrible mistake.
But I'm holding onto hope, hope that all these meds(Lamictal, Saphris, Abilify) may eventually enable me to have a life again. This year I lost my sister to suicide(she was 27 and also bipolar), I cannot put anyone through the pain that I've felt due to her leaving like she did. I must "carry that weight" as the Beatles would put it.
If you too are Bipolar I would love to chat, please message me. I'm looking for a friend who can relate, hell, I'm just looking for a friend.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
I feel every emotion too deeply; they're a dagger to my heart,
and I'm too sensitive - it only takes one tiny trigger for me to fall apart.
Sometimes it feels as though I'm not a real being;
convinced reality is a figment of my imagination that I'm seeing.
I started to litter my body with scars from the innocent age of ten,
I haven't stopped although I am nineteen now - things just haven't changed since then.
I made my first attempt at the tender age of just twelve years old,
and to this day another fourteen have occurred; by this inner demon I'm controlled.
A patient in a psychiatric hospital 6 days after my eighteenth birthday,
after swallowing a cocktail of pills and alcohol wanting to die away.
But...
I am someone with raw passion that flows through my veins
and my curiosity and adoration for the world around me remains.
I have mastered the art of living in the moment and doing the things that matter to me;
and I'm full of devotion and determination to be the person I'm destined to be.
I use poetry as an expression of all that I feel and I am made of linguistic creativity,
and I love deeply without reservation everything and everyone around me.
So although I may have borderline personality disorder as a part of me,
I am still a kind-hearted and passionate person who wants to be the best she can be.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
I am a sunflower
I am not a rose -- the bloom of the rose does not need to proclaim itself loudly to the world -- its very perfume is the witness of its own sweetness.
I was a psychiatric patient for awhile. This long period of enforced inactivity induced in me a love of reading which stood me in good stead.
It made the inner life of thought and imagination intensely real to me at a very early stage.
This used to absorb my attention so much, when a book was in my hand, that I became almost oblivious to what was going on around me.
During these early days of rapid mental growth, a glorious treasure-trove suddenly opened up to me (like a flower) a whole new world of fantasy and gave me its right of entrance into fresh realms of thought. My heart feel victim to my past lovers like the drug you were supposed to leave alone for awhile cigarettes became my only companions ; Lielanie too she helped with a sunflower like conversations I was enlightened and now I must grow again for my roots are starting to rot once again - my twitter followers and friends are the reason why I'm alive for I could vent and you; subliminally listen Thank You.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
If you are having sleepless nights, blame it on calcium deficiency as a key calcium channel has been identified as responsible for deep sleep, says new study.
The study also gives us a clue to understanding both normal and abnormal waking brain functions.
"It is the same brain, same neurons and similar requirements for oxygen and so on. So what is the difference between these two states?" asked Rodolfo Llinas, a professor of neuroscience at New York University School of Medicine and a Whitman Center Investigator at the Marine Biological Laboratory (MBL) in Woods Hole.
To tackle the broad question of sleep, Llinas and his colleagues focused on one crucial part of the puzzle in mice, Marine Biological Laboratory.
Calcium channels, selective gates in neuron walls, are integral in neuron firing, ensuring that all parts of the brain keep talking to one other. But during sleep, calcium channel activity is increased, keeping a slow rhythm that is different from patterns found during wakefulness.
Based on this clue, the scientists removed one type of calcium channel, Cav3.1, and looked at how the absence of that channel's activity affected mouse brain function.
This calcium channel turns out to be a key player in normal sleep. The mice without working Cav3.1 calcium channels took longer to fall asleep than normal mice, and stayed asleep for much shorter periods.
Their brain activity was also abnormal, more like normal wakefulness than sleep. Most importantly, these mice never reached deep, slow-wave sleep.
"This means that we have discovered that Cav3.1 is the channel that ultimately supports deep sleep," Llinas said.
Because these mice completely lack the ability to sleep deeply, they eventually express a syndrome similar to psychiatric disorders in humans.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/green-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/yellow-formal-dresses
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
i still am trying to hold back my tears as i write this down. i thought about on my way home and debated with myself for a good 3 hours and decided that i have to write this, if not for people, for myself.
i visited the ward as a visitor today. it felt weird to be on the other side of the door. it felt weird to be on the other side of the glass, and it felt weird to look into the eyes of someone i once knew.
it hurt that as soon as i walked through the open doors, i hear the screams of a man speaking in a language i did not understand. it hurt to watch him being pinned down by 2 men almost twice his size. it hurt to watch his mental pain being temporarily stopped with physical pain.
it hurt as we started talking. it took almost every ounce of courage inside of me to hold my tears back, because i knew that me crying would dampen his spirits and affect his recovery. and i knew exactly what that feels like.
it hurt to sit back and watch him explain his illness in terms i knew far too well. it hurt to hear him say " stay here, you would understand this more than anybody else. " it hurt that i understood. it hurt that for that brief moment, i didn't want to understand. i didn't want to be in there. my legs were shaking but i listened anyway.
it hurt to hear him explain how the electricity worked and hurt his jaws. it hurt to tell him to be strong, because i knew how much it would take out of him to just try. it hurt that he cracked up jokes in the middle of our conversations, i didn't feel like laughing at all.
it hurt to watch so many people suffering from illnesses they never asked for, it hurt to watch so many of you suffering from the pain you don't deserve. it hurt to just sit there and not be able to do anything about it. it hurt.
but it hurt because it wasn't my place to feel hurt, it was yours. it was your place to scream and shout. it was your place to cry and break down into a million pieces.
but it hurt because you couldn't, because in your head you are fine. in your head, you're at work. in your head, none of this ever happened. in your head, 20 cops didn't restrain you. in your head, this is a perfect world.
but it didn't hurt because i knew deep in my heart that no matter what, the way i feel about you will never change. the strong, courageous, brave, joyful, kind, happy man that i grew up knowing will always have a place in my heart. no amount of ect's and antidepressants will take that away.
so thank you, for opening my eyes to all the pain in the world. thank you, for making me understand that there is greater suffering in the world. thank you, for teaching me the value of gratefulness. thank you, for educating me, even if it was through your suffering.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
He peeps through the looking glass of life.
Emotionally detached, a social recluse.
Avoid eye contact.
Avoid eye contact.
Don't dare look at me!
That's right you've seen him!
But.... Have you actually seen him?
Or is he just a figment of your imagination?
For he's the stalker.
Lurking about in the shadows.
Spying on you from afar through those holes in the wall.
A human CCTV system looking you up and down when you least expect it.
Recording your every move in the memory bank.
Voyeuristic tendencies with the inability to openly admit he's one step away from the psychiatric ward.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
Hello Mr.Law nice to meet you
I can only assume what you plan to do
Fill your palace with another criminal
An outweighed sentence and your sympathy minimal
Haha! But look at this I've got money this time!
The representation of wealth and greed is sublime
Prestige on my side and there goes your jurisdiction
So, You grant me diversion to heal my minds affliction?
Fancy be and fancy sells - I'm content with this fine
To be told what I've learned through all the signs
A psychiatric assessment to tell me i'm me
Mental illness is just humanity can't you see?
Thanks for the counselling I've learned oh so much
A man is what he is and you have told me as such
Individuality is a sickness and needs to be medicated
The soul who lacks conformity needs to be domesticated
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide, self-harm, and eating disorders⚠
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how do u know if ur having a nervous breakdown
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signs of a nervous breakdown
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insomnia
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IS PATH WARM
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tortured artist
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i wish i was dead
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
It'll be two years soon.
Two years,
Five psychiatric medications,
Six relapses,
20 pounds lost and gained,
And lost again,
And one suicide attempt.
And now I'm here,
Still trying to wash your fingerprints
Off of my bruised skin.
Trying to forget your voice
And the feeling of your grip
On my wrists and throat.
Two years later
And I still can't bring myself
To say the word out loud.
The R word.
Two years later and I still
Tell myself
"You idiot, you should have known."
Two years later
And every time I pass your house
On the way to see my psychiatrist
I have half a mind
To burn it to the ground.
To throw rocks in your windows.
To slash the tires
On your red jeep.
Maybe by next year
I'll stop seeing you in my dreams.
I'll stop feeling your hands
All over me.
I'll stop hearing
Your voice breaking through tears
Telling me you love me.
Maybe by next year
The scars from when
I locked myself in your bathroom
And tore myself apart
Will fade completely.
Maybe by next year
I'll actually be able
To say the word ****
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
Speaking is an art
words like paint
we smear and spread out our ideas onto canvas
If you paint too fast-
**** it
you might make a mistake
Did you know paint can expire?
you think come one, paint?
paint can't go bad!
then you try and use it and its separated and chunky
and boom
your whole piece is ruined.
Words can expire too.
did you know that?
phrases and metaphors age turn ugly and contaminating just like the paint
they might have been usable once, but now
you'd better get some new words.
Like, when referring to someone who uses a wheelchair
people don't say they're crippled.
because that word has expired!
The same way simpleton was used to
refer to someone with intellectual disabilities
was is the key word there.
please for the love of god don't call anyone a simpleton
Lunatic was once used to refer to people with psychiatric disabilities
don't say the teacher who gave you homework on a Friday is a lunatic!
******** was used to refer to people with intellectual disabilities
but now you should NOT call anyone or anything ********
because it is inappropriate and insulting
This isn't about taking away your words
it's about what you are taking away from people with disabilities
when you use language like that.
what you are stripping away from people
when you decide to use a word like
*******
gimp
deformed
disfigured
Freak
insane
lame
******
*****
spaz
stupid
whacko
Knock it off!
when you decide to use those words
it takes away from anyone who has a disability
or anyone who every will.
Use a different word
use swear words
find a thesaurus.
Get some new **** paint
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
The Kuwait Warriors are in my Jeans
My new favorite cartoon
Saturday mornings, sugar cereal, spoons
I use force to deal with the mentally ill
Prison gauge my earrings, brah
Psychiatric hospitals for playtime with myself
I can ********** to hippopotamus
Look to me like I’m amazing
I’ll be a living god
Not really, more flu shots
Put them in my eye
Sky for my eye and flanksteak for my heart
Give me all the Bacon and Eggs you have
I call my mustache the crop duster
Cuz I’m always cleaning bush with it
Blow a load
Of cash
On my body shots
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
Dear Friend whom I love,
Yes I said love,
but don't worry
I am not talking about dates
or chocolate hearts or kisses
I'm just talking about being a person you trust,
who actually listens
and who you actually listen to
the one relentlessly praying,
who nudges
and even slaps you around sometimes,
that points you in the right direction
and in doing so,
I'm reminded of the right direction as well
So listen to me now:
stop
stop
lying to,
cheating,
short changing,
manipulating,
exhausting,
angering,
upsetting,
breaking .....
yourself
I know those are strange things to hear, because
you are "just fine" ...
But you gotta know:
you deserve more than what you accept
believe me, I've done the same thing for the past three years
not exactly the way you have, but it doesn't matter
I know you think I'm naive but
the root of the problem is the same
we are accepting the love we think we deserve
and i know that is a movie line
but for a long time
I believed it wasn't scripted for me to have love
so I accepted none, gave none
and I know you felt that as well,
then we both started consuming what we could find at the bottom of the barrel
because trying to open up to the right thing
seems like it would hurt so much more
but you don't have to sit at the bottom
you can have better
and better is being okay with who you are;
not seeking comfort or validation
from any part of this world
(I hope You know what I mean)
and I realize that abandonment requires giving up things,
but sometimes thats what we need
I am still trying to give up some of my closet secrets
But it is SOOO worth it!
and it is possible, if you want it
and I know you feel you want what you have now
But I know that you want more!
If nothing else, stop for my sake.
Yes, I'll be selfish. I don't care.
I haven't even known you for a year but…
Watching your heart break
through the window where I have to watch your life
as you hold onto brokenness
is breaking me ...
(Maybe cause it reminds me of myself)
I wish I could say it doesn't nearly bring me to tears,
but I am not that calloused.
Life has served me a hard play, like you
but His Love restored my softness;
has kept me sane.
Kept me from taking my life when I felt useless and worthless
because He told me I was worth something,
even in a dark psychiatric ward.
And I am still learning how in Him I am worth something
He reminds me when people, like you,
reach out to me…
I know you hear it every Sunday,
but the love you want is not that far.
It is not a secret, or shallow touch,
it is not security, attention, momentary bliss of distractions…
its nothing but sacrifice of The Loving Friend.
Recognize you are loved by the One who knows you and understands,
Far better than a girl with years of experience in psychological analyzing
and running on broken parts
I love you friend, and I would love for you to hear me.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
1. if i knew where to get drugs, i'd be a ******
2. sure, my ribs are visible, but what of it?
3. i lose myself in dreams at night and during algebra ii
4. i'm in lust with a girl with a boyfriend
5. or maybe i'm just paranoid
6. i'm lonely in these cinderblock walls
7. i find myself again under stage lights
8. i'm homeless (although not in the traditional sense)
9. i know i'm loved but
10. when my friends laugh with their other friends, it's about me
11. or maybe i'm just paranoid
12.if i lose it, who will visit me in the hell known as 'psychiatric ward'?
13. i can't hold my own in a fight because i cry into my wounds
14. besides, i don't write anymore
15. what is there to write about besides love and insanity anyway?
16. my demons visit this safe haven and desecrate it
17.their names are sarah kate and victoria
18. or maybe i'm just paranoid
19. but i swear i didn't name the voices inside my head
20. i make endless lists of things that don't matter
21. to do, to buy, to cry about, to write about
22. so i close my eyes when i sing
23.or maybe i'm just paranoid
24. and you hated this poem but
25. maybe i'm just paranoid
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
1.9k
My friends all think I'm crazy because I stand in the middle of the street and talk to a God that doesn't exist while high-fiving the windshields of passing school buses. I stopped taking my medication again because guilt taste a lot better than artificial happiness, and I stopped wearing that cross you bought me for my eight birthday because it contradicted the sense of uselessness I received for my twelfth. Life seems a lot less precious when you're talking to your parents in the TV room of a psychiatric unit and look them in the eyes while they tell me not to cry and say that 'pain is only temporary'. All I do is write letters to a man on the moon about the time I realized how hard and easy it is to die. Send me to therapy and make me take pills. I'll smile, but I'll always remember how to tie a noose
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
Look far beyond your nose
Imagine the wording prose your mind recites despite the fights between the lights;
Stand-back to back with your enemies
And believe that you are safe,
A mistake;
Craving knowledge of everything from your existence
To your beliefs
I believed I was falling down the trail
And all hail the misguided princess;
She's so misguided the North Pole becomes south
And the south;
Exiting from her mouth
With a flow; the beautiful candles of her heart.
The beautiful candles of her heart
Those that lit stormy fire inside mine
Those that lit up the dark pits of something I forgot about,
And all about my whereabouts
I see the signs of inconclusive doubts
Over my forehead, reflected upon people's faces;
And eyes look at me with non-empithetical sympathy
The symphony of eyelashes flapping over a lost identity.
I'm lost.
All those spiritual stoppages
Are causing my hands to shiver
All those figurative speech as she caresses her words
Preparing mine to stutter
Are making my eyes darken
And my faith to dismay;
I may,
Or may not be the person you want to find
But I find you the person I was never looking for
Yet I still crave the carves you carve on my hands.
The snapping bones of anger;
The cracking knuckles of regret;
The apprehensions preconceived with the threats;
The young man lost his track
The young man lost in the wild
With ideas even wilder
And actions that do not convey his messages
For the circles of bees become limits to his being;
For the frontiers of fighting lions
Become barriers to his block,
That upper corner in dying arteries; hidden
Way over the Mediterranean seas forgotten,
That young man is creating chaotic cancellations,
Phones typing messages of hesitation,
Brains articulating pieces of his own creation,
A salutation be upon my buddy
The young fellow who got lost facing everybody,
And everybody cheered as they watched;
His being stepped on, and heart being stabbed
The chats between the minds
Become cramps
The cramps in his existence become fatal agitation
The agitations in his life become psychiatric misinterpretation
For he got it all wrong
Everyone got it all wrong
But does that stop him?
Let alone
Does that stop all the fake men who built their empires upon forged pillars?
Killers,
Of characteristics;
Followers,
Disciples and students
To a dark lady
Typing her last words of goodbye
Over a phone that’s found in her palms
Yet lost,
In a young girl's heart.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Earlier I relapsed
Cutting away my woes and letting my pain seep out;
But then I stopped,
Realizing how many promises I was breaking
And how many hearts I was shattering
I felt weak in my knees
Falling to the ground I cried
Ashamed and guilty
How could I do such a thing to those I love?
Panic set in,
I can't let anyone know
Because I don't want to go back to that hell
That cursed and wretched psychiatric hospital
That's more like a prison with schedules and timed everything;
Painted over windows and white walls that hold tallies of torturous days and child-like scribbles
That makes it more of a trigger than everything else
But soon enough I gathered myself;
I took a hot shower,
And stood in front of the mirror practicing my smile
While I planned what outfits to wear with foundation to hide what I've done
So now all is okay and fine,
And I'm alright;
At least,
I think so...
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:43 PM UTC
I'd grab a knife and let it tear through my flesh
to rip out this inner strife if it wouldn't lead to my death.
My soul shivers he beats on his chest in fact that's why I breathe
on this ****** to try and relax. My mind is stretched to the max
my head needs to detach, my soul needs to eject.
Hotheaded armed with an icepick.
Hacking away at this ice that my spine grips.
My thoughts are confined in a space as small as my iris
and I'm behind iron bars of anxiety that I constantly have to fight with.
I've become a mass murderer, locked in a psychiatric ward as I **** my parts within, erasing my kin, the ink from the teardrops darkens my skin.
Fallen to sin. My world in the dark. A void shaped like a heart.
Yet this Tinman retaliates against the wizard of Oz!
My torch an everburning question mark
answers? That's the past but Life throwing hooks so I HAVE to dodge.
Hits exit Pause-my-world which I create so I can spit back in the face of God!
You awoke a sleeping giant, a savage beast, a lion
My soul roars everytime you see me sighin
I won't ignore these tidings
A frozen force is rising
Close to war my broken core redefines defiance.
So I will stand my ground and fight
go bar for bar with life.
Proudly wear these battlescars
you'll be astounded by my might
A star upon my sky
My reach is long and wide
You see I'm strong you're weak and wrong
I no longer hide
Because I don't have a mind
I am guided by the light
my sight set on my rage
replace my blood with hate
bleed and rust and easily crush
this tyrant in my cage.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
a bowl of black beans / your mother sitting on the other side of the kitchen / this liquidation of self / you would be something / anything / anyone / if it could make you safe / the black beans taste like nothing now / you aren’t crying but you’re **** near it / your mother makes a honey sweet remark / won’t you stay alive / and / eat your beans then we’ll leave / and you don’t have an answer but you listen / you are pleading with the voices to let you eat the beans and make them taste less like bleach / your mother bleached your hair when you were fourteen and you bleached your skin at sixteen / you drank that same bleach from that same bottle three days after your sixteenth birthday/ but this is a bowl of beans and it tastes like that time / smells like that time / your throat coughing up blood and your body wretching to *****
a bowl of black beans / your mother takes that bowl and washes it out in the sink / you still have that hoarse voice from imagining it tastes like bleach / you still have that ***** wretch instinct because of how much your throat stings / then mother says; you’ll stay with them for some time / as if that makes anything better / a drive into the emptiness of a psychiatric hospital / a place they’d sent you when you were ten because you were so angry and so depressed / you break when the blue tiles turn to ocean and you drown / you break when the red tiles turn to fire and burn your toes / you are hungry again / but you know everything you eat will taste like bleach.
you can’t sleep because the bleach is still on your tongue / you think of that bowl of black beans / your mother sitting on the other side of the kitchen / maybe you’d see her smile again / maybe you’d be broken and be able to exist comfortably / don’t you want to survive to see that?
you answer / no / i’d rather die than be patronized.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
The subject of this email is as usual... subjective! Not sure there is actually a subject involved? I mean if I just ramble on about any old thing that crosses my mind, how would that be described as a subject. I submit that the "subject" line of all emails should be moved to the end of an email! That way we would have a better grasp of what the subject of the email truly is.
Better yet it should automatically prompt you to go to the subject line when you click "send" to fill in at that time. Maybe the email program should even give samples of possible subject lines based on google's interpretation of what you have typed in the body of the email. Better yet that program should just run automatically and impose a subject line based on the information in the message body after it is run through several psychiatric data bases and analyzed and a consensus has been reached...
Hmmm... Now I'm thinking that there should be a mind to keyboard interface so we can do away with all this time-consuming typing! And while we're at it why not add a chip in our brains that thinks for us and sends the data it receives directly to the keyboard interface... I mean think of all the time we would save not having to think any more!
Why stop there? We can also add emotion chips so that when we are letting our thinking chip talk for us we can also have the emotions that our emotion chip thinks we should be feeling automatically inserted into the email with the capability of it being felt by the emotion chip in the person whose thinking and keyboard interface chips are perusing the email written by our thinking and keyboard interface chips.
Ooooh now I'm really thinking... why not install mini SD drives in our brains so we can change the way we feel by simply inserting a new SD card? That way if we happen to read one of the emails thought out by our thinking chip, written by our keyboard interface chip, analyzed and consented to by the psychiatric data bases and given a subject and we decide that we want to change the way it is perceived by the thinking chip of the recipient we can simply insert a different emotion SD card into our SD drive and have those new emotions embedded directly into the email!
*** This is genius! Imagine the time we could save! I could just go on and on with this! The applications are limitless. Why hasn't someone thought of this before? Oh wait, what am I thinking... this is old news. This is called brainwashing and the government and every major company in the world has been doing it since the dawn of capitalism!
I'm going to stop now because I am no longer sure if the words I write are my own, or if they are just a bunch of noise created by the humm of all the post hypnotic suggestive clutter in my brain from years and years of commercial TV and slick politician abuse.
That's all I have time for this morning. I apologize in retrospect for the emotional agony I have put your brain through while reading this inane banter...
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
what a wonderful coincidence to discover that when I look up
one of my two favorite words
threshold
it is linked to my other favorite word
phenomenon
but my life is laced with coincidence
my third favorite word
they happen daily
like itches
for instance,
today I did a wikipedia search for Ezra Pound
because my poetry student daughter fell in love with one of his pieces
I find that from 1945 to 1958
Mr Pound was incarcerated at St Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital in Washington D.C. after being found incompetent to stand trial
for treason against the United States
my father worked at St Elizabeth's hospital for 30 years
including the 12 that Mr. Pound was a patient
my father, who kept his poetry hidden in a little black book
I have a vision of him
young at the time
enamored with the 60 plus year-old poet
seeking him out and finding him
resting outside at one of the tables
enjoying the simplicity and intricacies of nature
and perhaps they have a chat about poetry...
my father having a chat with Ezra Pound
70 years before his granddaughter falls in love
with one of his poems
a poem already written and filed away somewhere in the memory of a once beloved poet
threshold: the magnitude or intensity that must be exceeded for a certain reaction, phenomenon, result or condition to occur or be manifested.
“nothing happens until the signal passes the threshold”
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC