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Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Doctor of Psychiatry (That's Me. EMM. DEE.)
The accent's on the silent P
I read it in a book, you see,
the Holy DSM (now V).

But did I hear you say you're SANE?
Well, have you met your reptile brain?
Here... Plug this in…
Now bite down hard...
While I explain...

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!

Hmmm, what to do? My day's half done...
Let's educate! With Ritalin!
Oh Glory Me! Not vita-mines!!
We can't have that you filthy swine.
Can't you just work on drooling fine?
Now, back to work... No time to waste...
My kickbacks must be earned posthaste!

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!

Survivors? Schmeguyvors!
It’s time for lunch!  I'll have some brain!
Served with sides of *** and pain!
Again, again, again, AGAIN!!
You're drooling from your ears again...
I thought you said that you were sane.
Quick! Swallow this — I’ve kids to *****!
Did I say that? IT ISN'T TRUE!

(They must read minds — I’LL **** THEM TOO!)

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!

I love to ****! O what a day!
In fact, I'm GOD, I'm proud to say.

Blah blah blah blah
Blah blah blah blah...
You say some words?
Listen! They don't even rhyme!
So just make sure you're dead on time.
Take these... What? Did I say DEAD?
(That Prozac's gone straight to your head.)
Of course I did! Cuz DEATH’s such fun!

(insane laughter)
Christian Ek Jul 2014
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.
Lizzy Dec 2016
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 "****".
Makayla Jane Nov 2018
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...
Feel free to share revision ideas :)
Jessica Lofts Jun 2018
“How does this make you feel? What does it make you think of?”
Gee I don’t know, Doc,
Which answer do you want?
Do you want me to tell you that it reminds me of the futility of existence?
Or of the failings of mankind?
Or maybe ‘I can’t believe my parents are paying you 200 ******* pounds an hour to show me ****** drawings, ask me what I think, and pretend that you don’t make me want to swallow 100 benzos.’
How about  ‘I sometimes think it’s people like you that made me crazy and not the trauma or chemical imbalances.’
Or perhaps ‘Sometimes I think about killing myself and writing your name on the suicide note so my parents can sue you and we can get all our wasted ******* money back’
Just so I never have to hear ‘How does it really make you feel?’
Ever. Again.

My mother tells me ‘You’re not engaging with therapy’
‘You aren’t trying hard enough’,
But Mother dearest,
How do you suggest I engage with a 60 year old woman,
Who wears hideously large pearl necklaces,
Probably supported Thatcher,
Thinks that the ‘****’ can still be cured with conversion therapy,
And is happy to keep seeing us – as long as we can keep paying.

And what exactly does trying look like to you?
Because to me,
It’s managing to brush my hair in the morning,
It’s showering after days on end of ‘maybe when I can be bothered’,
It’s eyeing up that packet of paracetamol I hussled off of you for my ‘headache’,
And convincing myself it probably isn’t a good idea to ingest the whole packet after all I hear it’s a really horrible way to die,
But maybe if I downed a bottle of Jack with it then I -
It’s pushing away those kinds of thoughts with the force of a hurricane,
Whilst feeling like a dilapidated house that was battered by the storm,
It’s not telling her that she can shove her prestigious psychiatric degree,
Up her self righteous, arrogant, rude, unbearable ***-
Trying is attempting to control my anger or at least channelling it into something,
It’s dragging myself out of bed to my 9am classes even though I spent the whole night crying,
Because I have to convince myself I have a future,
But it’s also realising it’s ok if I can’t drag myself out,
Some days the weight is heavier than others.

So please,
Do not ask me how Rorschach ink blots, imaginary scenarios, 30mg of this medication, that memory, sleeping alone, facing my fears, reliving the pain, crying myself into a coma, listening to your meditation CD, ‘trying new things’, ‘pushing the boat out’, attempting my new coping strategies, slitting my wrists, getting out of bed, wondering what life would’ve been like if I had never walked into his room
Feels like.
Because you probably wouldn’t begin to understand.
Louise Apr 2
i’m sick of having to just
sit and watch as the life
from her once bright
and hopeful eyes
flickers out a little more
with every passing day.

i‘ll stand by her side
always, but her mind
has drifted to another place
so, so far away from me.

and in the end i’m left alone.
unable to do something
about the pain she feels.
it’s destroying me.

she’s barely hanging on.
almost giving up on
her own **** life.

i’m sick of feeling helpless.
i’m sick of seeing her
sickness slowly lock her up
inside her mind and thoughts.

all this time she‘s been stuck
deep inside the never-ending
cycle of self doubt and criticism.

i know she is done with
living like this and there’s
nothing i can do to help her.
it’s tearing me apart.

i remember when she told me:
“the life may leave my lungs,
but my heart will stay with you.”
i let myself fall into her arms
and we cried and cried together,
until we had no tears left anymore.

days after that happened
she was forced to go into
a psychiatric hospital because
she refused to eat anything.

it’s been four months and
she isn’t doing any better.
she is still in the same place.

i don’t want to see her
fade away and fall down
the same way my best friend did,
just weeks before her death.
i don’t want her life to end like this.

i don’t want to see that again
because i can’t take it.
my heart can’t take it.
i’ll break down if that happens to her.
my best friend didn’t deserve it,
and she doesn’t deserve it either.
i wouldn’t even wish this
upon my worst enemy.

god i beg you, make it
easier for her to stay.
but if she really needs
to leave this place,
please free her from this
pain and heartache
in the most peaceful way.

l. h.
This is the most personal poem I’ve ever written and I’m kinda scared to post it, but I’m going to do it anyways. Please leave a comment, I’d love to hear your opinion on it.
Matthew Sep 2018
That's what they're calling me now.
I can't seem to produce their language.
But that's what the elder sprits
Have been calling me.
I guess it freaked them out at first lol
Sure as hell rocked my world..
But they see the stability resuming,
As I feel my strength return.
Now everyone wants to know what
I'm going to do next.
It's obvious, is it not?
When a shaman is having big big spirit troubles, then it's time to meet a smarter shaman. I've already been making calls.

A lot of people think I should check into a psychiatric ward. Maybe they're justified in thinking so. But this is burning in my chest. I will not subdue it under a blanket of antipsychotics. No..that would make me truly insane, or worse.. **** my heart with my body still trapping it.

No, my friends, this is a spiritual matter. A matter of heart and honor and such. Satan himself is the enemy
And we are on a mission from God
Life as a tuned psychic is..uhhg

Minds break apart at midnight,
piece together in dreamless sleep.

Robert Lowell poaches pen-and-ink
drawings for Life Studies.
Sylvia Plath dons Ariel’s red dress,
but loses Ariadne’s thread.  

Lowell raises For the Union Dead,
mythic monument to his family’s best.
Pigeons decorate it with their ***** mess.
Plath pins a ******* to her chest —  
shockingly pink —
and stands beside the kitchen sink,

Stirring a *** of poet’s gruel.
Madness and death the golden rule
no artistry can break. Not even the careless
reader can take leave of these senses

Once they’re rendered on the page.
Confession doesn’t age well,
as Lowell knows oh so well,

unless it suggests more substantial fare,
say, a flannel bathrobe for him to wear
in a Boston psychiatric ward — if he dares.

There’s something wrong with his head.
Crown him Caligula; his lineage has fled.

“What does that have to do with me, Daddy?” Plath artfully whines.
“Fill the tulip jars with red water, not wine,” he replies.
“The bridegroom cometh. Turn off the oven.”
But it is too late. She has met her fate before it predeceases her.

Like a teacher’s pet, she bets her life on a recitation
of Daddy, a term of endearment,
a term of interment in a stark, loveless miscarriage,
a dark, masculine disparagement of her freedom. O Daddy dearest.

Lowell shoots up to salute the younger poet, guessing
she has given the year’s best reading by a girl in red dresses.

At this stage, what does it matter that his “mind’s not right”?
What can he do but give up his right to pray, as every insight
       slips away?

But no Our Father for Plath. For her, the Kingdom comes too late.
Colossal poetry cannot save; the poet raves and raves and raves
       into that dark night.
Turn off the oven, turn out the lights. Daddy, too, is not right.


Blake fired his Proverbs of Hell
in the dull, damning kilns
of England’s Industrial Age.

A poet’s no sage, but Lowell earned
his wings when he doctored Blake’s phrase:
“I myself am hell.”

A stone angel directs his descent:

Fortune favors the bold.

Never discount the power of chance.

Affliction of the senses is a gift.

Invisible seeks invisible.

Darkness obscures our limits.

We carry darkness within us.

Anarchy breeds spirit.

Artistry breeds no merit.

Appropriate beauty, at all costs,
whether, man, beast or angel


Poetry births an artifact of words; we unearth them, and they adhere.
We bury them, and they fall flat — hollow sounds, futile splats,
       prehistoric grunts ground into the ground.

Bathed in lithium and alcohol, here bobs your calling, Robert:
Everything matters; nothing coheres.
Build a shell of a soul on this maxim, a notebook of negation.  
       Grind your axes.

Sanctuaries may crumble, gates may close. Press on. Press on.
Corkscrew your identity into the iambic line; rouse the reader to find
the misleading promise of Eternity in the sonnet, the sonnet,
       the endless sonnet.

For minds lost in madness, tree limbs dangle like kite tails in the wind. No one flies here anymore. Gather reddened kindling while ye may.

What exiles you from the ancients — Homer, Virgil and Horace —
springs from vision, not technique: You lack the requisite blindness.

Absence absents the soul. Here, now, forever, shimmers only presence,
only the present, only Presence: divine, human, animal, marmoreal.
       Skunks, sails, cars and pails. Sing on, O son of New England!

Day by day, failing all, fill your void with fiery
hieroglyphs of verse. Then call your duty done.


Behold: You are not the favorite, after all, but Camus’ stranger,
trapped in the blinding sun, stumbling on the burning sand.

Only what dies in you endures.

“Is getting well ever an art,
or art a way to get well?”

The skunks scurry, scavenge and survive far too long for you to answer.

You lie down beside orange fishnets, facing the shore.
At midnight, you will dream of dreamless sleep.
To follow the development of this poem, it's important to know the works and lives of the confessional poets Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath. If you are unfamiliar with them, I suggest you first read "Skunk Hour" by Lowell and then "Daddy" by Plath. Short biographies would help, too.
Whit Jan 1
You never really know anyone.
Need an example? Have a stay at in the psych ward.

The girl who caught my eye
after rolling up her sleeves to paint
started to cover scars until
I showed her mine.
She wrote song lyrics on her arms
to remind her that others feel the same way.

There is solidarity.

One girl with the cute afro
and anger issues
cried after yelling at one of the other girls.
She loved to do word searches.

Who says we are in control?

The little girl who bangs her head up against the wall
to rid herself of the demons
looks adorable with her fuzzy blanket
singing along to watching Disney movies on the couch.

Anyone can be effected.

One girl who had to learn to eat again,
wouldn't let you
hate on your own body.
She could
speak 3 languages
and draw like a goddess.

We are more than our pain.

The people living under depression can crack the brightest smiles.
We wouldn’t wish these feelings on anyone-
that’s we always want to crack jokes.

Between the locked doors and gray walls,
we shared stories from days long ago,
we got excited on chicken tender day,
we ran around the gym and painted everything we could-

We are trying to heal.

Next time someone assumes
they know you, but get it all wrong, try
not to get mad,
no matter how hard you have to grind your teeth,
because you know the truth.

The truth that
you never really know anyone,
at the end of the day-
if it helps, don’t worry, nobody really knows you.
Based on true stories. Stay strong everybody.
Luna Jay Jan 17
I can’t breathe-
But I can wear long sleeves.
I can’t look
To the tumbling leaves
Without being reminded
Of my cracking psychiatric state
That his name leaves me in.
I can’t smile,
But I can blame it on
Being “under the weather”
Like it’s some sort of
Dizzy spell that disintegrates
My fake smiles and
Social interactions.
Another year I watch the leaves lose their hair,
Being stripped completely vulnerable
In public,
Just the way he left me.
Another year I spend my birthday alone.
Another year I don’t have a date to the fair.
It’s unfair…
Another year I will be purposely outcast
At friendly functions.
Another year I’ll be questioned
As to why I stay at home all of the time.
Another year I’ll spend alone in my own mind.
Another year;
Closer to death.
Happy ******* birthday.

— The End —