"psychiatrists" poems
I think sometimes, about what it means to be transgender. I probe and probe for answers, because as the possibility for a new age of enlightenment and safety increases, the others want to know. I’ve come up with many answers, but I can hold to none. I don’t deserve to paint the definition of a culture with the limited experiences I’ve had. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people allowed on television. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people making news feeds and giving high profile interviews. And as my nation’s exposure to our culture increases, likely will their curiosity. Am I transgender? Do I have the right? I’ve heard doctors, psychiatrists, may refuse transgender patients access to hormone therapy based on how dedicated or convincing their portrayal of their identified gender. If you want to be a man or woman, you’ll have to look like the women and men on TV. If you want to be transgender, you’ll have to look like the trans identified people on TV. Every single one of us who has an active role as either participant or observer in our society is prey to the crisis of validity. Am I pretty enough? Am I strong enough? Am I brave enough? Mom enough? Dad enough? Competitive enough? Successful enough? Rich enough? **** enough? Pious enough? It never ends. We’re, as a nation of people, being crushed and compartmentalized by this ever present lens, looming over us, exploiting our weaknesses and fears so it may grow wider, and support itself as it follows us, seemingly forever into the future. And one of the worst fears this camera of existential torment exploits, in most of us every day, is, “Do I have a reflection?” “What does it look like?” “Do I look like me?” What does it mean to be transgender? I can’t get away from that question. But I don’t have an answer. There are varying degrees of anguish, depression, panic, anxiety, and other wonderful emotional states that creep up on you and breathe down your neck nearly every waking day. Absolute contempt for the lie of a life you’ve lived till now, and contempt for the fragments still stuck to you, in memories, attached to your body and mind. Fear of those in your own community who would purposefully humiliate, invalidate, or attack you, choosing their own universal moral code over the innate urge and capacity to support the health and continued well being of another human. A ******* neighbor. A ******* pupil. A ******* employee. A ******* sister, brother, son, daughter, mother, father, cousin, ******* blood. What is being transgender like? By my experiences, it’s just like being anyone else in the country. But with a lot more fear, death, exclusion and medication.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.
no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***
no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
I can't even remember how it started...
Drifting from who I was,
My normal just slowly departed from me.
Foggy glimpses of the boy I used to be.
Ripping through the last shreds of my humanity,
Right on the edge of insanity,
I'm not but a shadow of what, and who I was,
Can you guess what was the cause?
As time goes on,
I am more and more losing myself,
Turning absolutely insane, there is now no sense of self.
I'm starting to be really bloodthirsty.
As time goes on,
I more and more want to hurt somebody,
Physically.
I want to feel something, anything!
I'm slowly losing my sanity,
It's getting real hard to keep myself from breaking the limits,
Of this society we live in!
But can you blame me?
I just want to feel excited,
Happy,
Have a geniune smile on my **** face.
Do you comprehend
An existence like mine,
Where you feel nothing?
While people around you find happiness,
And joy,
In things that mean nothing to you?
I've been resisting my urges for a while,
But I'm slowly getting out of control,
Nothing can make me whole.
Things are gonna get real ugly,
Real soon.
Therapy won't help this insane existence of mine.
Trust me, they tried, and tried.
Phsychologists, psychiatrists,
5 types of antidepressants,
A bunch of relaxants,
And diagnosis of many, many mental disorders.
Nothing could get me back in order,
I guess they were too late, I already crossed all sane borders.
Yup... For years, to no avail.
Go on, mock me, say I'm insane;
But it's your kind that did this to me.
But please, watch your tongue,
Words are hurtful.
Hush now, won't you stay a while?
Join me with a painted smile.
Tragic faces,
Stationed at my bedside,
Warm embraces,
While I'm hollow on the inside.
Their eyes betray them,
This is only a painted smile.
After my attempts,
People just wouldn't buy my painted smiles,
So they tried, and tried,
Everything they could think of.
Religion, mental hospitals, therapy, and medication...
If only they knew what a monster I try to keep inside every day,
Will their opinions change that day,
Will they regret it when I unleash the beast inside?
So 'till the day I tear myself from the inside,
Won't you join me with a painted smile?
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
jesse and i used to play games of fairies as children. i still have the drawing book which we gathered "facts" from. her crazy neighbor (with basically ten siblings.Mormons) played the games with us, but she too lived them. we put out "food" for them, ran from evil spirits, used powers to fuel the plot, ran through the trees and down hills, and used leaves, sticks, the weather, and even sounds in the wind to move the story. we grew to dismiss it as child's play (though i can't speak for the girl), but it was real. it was as real as anything, and affected us more than all else. our childhood was a fairy-tale it just didn't get a "happily ever after" in cursive at the bottom of the page. it was magic all the same.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Help me
the drugs don't work
my father touches me
I am too fat
powerless
I incise my anorexic hunger
with a martyr's red razor
rewarding myself
with a dopamine high
mixed with pity and disgust
so I can hide in the up and down
never know my real reasons
project my sadness onto others
and take pills
from psychiatrists
who themselves
believe the shallow island of chemicals
is the solution
and who work only
to keep you sick
when the sun is shining
but you cannot see it
because your frontal cortex says
the sun is not shining
when in fact
it is.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:51 AM UTC
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations, characterizations
imitations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
of
dreams and trances.
Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.
Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of
courage.
Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
or
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.
You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.
You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
and
freedom cannot be far behind...
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Aliens
They have no notion of past or present,
everything is about oceans.
When they ask for you
it is really a story about seeing the ocean.
VISITOR #1:
Listen. It is failure of bridges that builds angels.
GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
Is this the depression
we've all been experiencing?
VISITOR #4:
Please have a seat and forget the edge of that coast,
you were not intended for this distance.
GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
I believe we're all owed an explanation.
Where is this manifest?
I've never ridden a horse, I am being dreamed about.
VISITOR #1:
You would not believe
the stories redwoods have.
You each get one phone call.
GROCERY BAGGER/ COLLEGE STUDENT:
But the voicemail I've been trying to reach,
all morning,
is full.
"I dream of psychiatrists telling stories
about dreaming of women
they've seen in unedited videos on the internet.
Sometimes they save her from that burning nightclub."
VISITOR #2:
If you're going, leave your voice
somewhere in a room I know.
COLLEGE STUDENT:
We would have no need for phones if you didn't invent distance.
VISITOR #2:
There are trees that become stained with a purple blossom.
During summer the blossoms fall and shadow around the trunk
like a violet negative.
What a beautiful dimension that must be.
They pull her skirt down to examine the body,
palms pour from a sidewalk in L.A.,
everything is cracked-
"My god she's beautiful, huh?"
I think I met them before,
a long time ago.
THE MEMORY OF A VISITOR APPEARING IN A DREAM:
What happens next? Come the exit of electricity from the body;
on a long enough time-line all weather radicalizes and the people
will grow into trees.
You can read about that hollowness and never be prepared for it.
It’s like standing on the edge of an overpass,
and being completely empty of the urge to jump.
This is what I remember:
instructed to reenact creation
she throws clothes
from an open window above the 60 freeway.
"You have to imagine there are people,
surrounding you and talking"
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
Don't look now
I'm fading away
Into the gray of my mornings
Or the blues of every night
Is it that my nails
keep breaking
Or maybe the corn
on my secind little piggy
Things keep popping out
on my face
or
of my life
It seems no matter how
I try I become more difficult
to hold
I am not an easy woman
to want
They have asked
the psychiatrists . . . psychologists . . . politicians and social workers
What this decade will be
known for
There is no doubt . . . it is
loneliness
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
do we have a telepathic relationship
our waking minds know nothing of
do we commune in the deep of out of reach
calmly knowing all that's thought
well before anything is said
or are we showing off just bending spoons
sitting in the psychiatrists waiting room.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
What if we had roots deep down to the centre of luck –
wouldn’t we be laughing about rain and tears
and wouldn’t we keep growing if we embroidered
our thoughts with roots and luck.
What if the fruit at the end of the twig was happiness, without a question mark.
Wouldn’t we chuckle about the empty space in our mind?
How could we stop?
What if, instead of connecting dots we overdrew parentheses and footnotes with smileys and flowers and purring cats;
What if science and pain only existed
as cuddly monsters with toothache in children's books;
What if we found a rabbit’s hole leading us into a world where psychiatrists and gurus were nervous patients
in big waiting halls without flushing toilets.
Wouldn’t we be neurotically smiling?
What if we didn’t call ourselves falling leaves,
but started feeling eons of love upon our wrinkles.
Wouldn’t death then simply be a slight breeze
releasing the heat at the end of a wonderful day?
What if our hearts went on, free of age and weight,
circulating kindred songs beyond fixed identities.
What if I was wrong and every conditional was closer
to experience than arguments and miracles –
My dear: I unlocked the universal laughter;
I turned sadness into luminous gardens, into a slow waltz
to hear the non-dancers saying: Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!
What if we finally found the recipe for equilibrium:
Would we still be needing stock markets and currencies?
Or could we simply exchange syllables across languages
without losing the message of oneness.
What if we really had roots deep down to the centre of luck?
Yes. Roots and luck.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
I walked into Walgreen’s that night
absorbed in my own little world.
Soon after entering,
I made my way to the line.
My eyes
d a n c e d
to the crescent-moon shaped scar
adorning the young clerk’s neck.
With the gentleman in front of me,
he spoke of
camouflage and machine guns.
Earlier times when he
could only see his
family through
the lens of
a
webcam.
When he first learned what it took
to be a man.
And when he learned what true loss
really felt like.
It’s my turn.
I step f o r w ard
and stare directly into his eyes
and wonder
how he ended up here.
His face doesn’t give away much,
he’s painted on a cordial smile
and the air between us seeps
with the remnants
of small talk.
But I can’t help wondering.
I wonder, if he knows
he’s more than he’s been told.
more than he’s settled for.
more than the orders he was commanded to obey.
more than the lines he was expected to cross.
more than the monster he had to become.
To survive.
I can’t help but wonder
how he’s ended up here.
Overseas— he’s ranked
but now that he’s home
on friendly soil, he’s thrown into department store
positions and temporary jobs.
I can only hope he’s better off than some of his friends
tossed into
psychiatrists offices.
But I wonder,
I wonder what memories might decide to plague his dreams.
While he tries to figure out
which pill alleviates which painful recollection.
Which part of his past will come back to haunt him today
and which of his friends lives will flash before his eyes while he tries to sleep.
Norepinephrine firing through his brain
like the gunshots he had to deliver.
The U.S government is so quick to draft,
but hasn’t learned how to welcome home.
They hide their veterans in the dark corners of psych wards,
allow them to get lost in the depths of their own minds,
while the PTSD
eats away whatever is left.
These men fight for countries who don’t know what to do with them afterwards.
What they both need to learn:
There is life after war.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
When I was really suffering
and I mean really suffering
I was lying in bed
like Brian Wilson
watching Pat ******* Robertson
and the ******* PTL Club
asking for help
from Jesus and God
and Buddha and Dharma
and Sangha and Shiva
and every other ******* god
or whatever there was or is
and they all
just made things worse
so do you know
what got me through it all
no, it wasn't the psychiatrists
or mom or dad
or brother or sister
or friends
or any of the above
all I had
to get me through
this ******* torture
was
cigarettes
yes
my holy smokes
and now
tobacco is an endangered species
but I'm ready
with my pipe
and a lifetime supply
of tobacco
so bring on
the cigarette enemies
because I think
I'll have a smoke -
Ahhh.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
since i turned into a nocturnal creature i’ve changed a bit,
i started the theological arithmetic:
(right hand) thumb, index, middle finger(s) -
january february march,
ring, pinky & pinky (left hand) -
april may june,
ring middle index (left hand)
july august september -
thumb (left hand) thumb and index (right hand)...
of yes, intelligent design...
now make a hole using your thumb & index finger,
then ensure your thumb goes in & out from that whole...
like god, say: oh **** i forgot the piston!
guess what’s the slang term for a russian in polish?
kacap.
guess what’s the slang term for a german in polish?
szwab (shvab) /
i know, i too wish it was sax...aphone.
guess what’s the slang term for a dwarf in polish?
karakan.
but i said, there are really two branches from the 20th
century growing into the 21st century,
there’s the proustian branch that’s a cul de sac...
and there’s the joycean branch, that leads to ezra pound et al.,
finnegans wake (which i have read) i can a 50p with an invention
of a terminology: uncoded phoneticism, i.e.
alpha bravo charlie delta echo, only because:
prirates’ aye, eye and lie and high sounded pretty much the same
even though they were spelled differently.
uncoded phoneticism means you use a coding of language
from thought / silence in a way that elevates it
from the standard usage, from novelty interests
of a righteous narrator crafting new characters...
of course your writing will appear chaotic... but in reality
it will not be... trust me... i simulated paranoid schizophrenia
for seven years... fooled three psychiatrists
and regained a chance to provoke.
nicholas ii is smiling at me from a banknote i own,
and i have a kopek’s worth of currency from dostoyevsky’s times.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
I woke up today,
realizing
that if I hadn't
gone to psychiatrists,
and studied religion,
and worked hard
for many years
at Zen,
that I probably
would have been
one of those guys
who gets a gun
and shoots a lot of people
and then turns it
on himself
and blows his brains out,
because I think
that I have lived
a hundred lifetimes
before this one
as a victim of torture
and therefore
was pushed to the limit,
but instead of becoming
a suicidal psycho-murderer,
I became
some sort of
love, peace and happiness
Bodhisattva,
so instead of criticizing Zen
and psychiatry,
like I usually do,
I'm praising them.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 8:42 AM UTC
I was born with wounds in my head
they tell me I’ll be better and they give me pills
but oh, nothing takes you out of
me for you are stitched into my soul
like disease.
Sometimes I want to hide in my
mother’s womb and build
a fortress of all the tears we’ve cried
you and I
so there's a bed
and there’s our bodies intertwined
like homes that swallow the skies
and dance under the pouring rain
and during hurricanes
there’s a body and there’s another
there’s a pill and there’s the other
and there’s my dry mouth begging for
a drizzle, from your soul, boy.
**** medications.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
~
This whole depression thing
Is getting really old
Every day feels the same
Just another 24hr. time bomb
Tick-Tick-Ticking in my brain
Guilt;
Guilt for things I can't control
For being me
And not feeling whole-ly there
No one knows
I don't want them to
I can't be monitored
For everything I do
That's no way to live
I'm not harmful
To myself or others
Isn't that what most matters?
No one cares if I'm unhappy
So long as I'm not a threat
They'll throw pills down my throat
Call me good; Or good enough
Send me on my way
Piece of paper in my hand
With drugs that only they understand
I'm not really living
But at least I'm not dead
So bring it on
The Tick-Tick-Ticking of my bomb
Never going to explode
Just there to keep me in control
So I'm not a "burden" on this world.
~S.A.~
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
At the fountain
by Nelson’s Column
you met Julie
in mini skirt
and bright
red top
her hair hugged
into a ponytail
a copy of Sgt Pepper’s
under her arm
you in jeans
and open necked shirt
came across to her
standing there
looking into the fountain’s water
sorry I’m late
you said
missed my train
no problem
she said
bought my own Beatles' LP
and she held it out to you
friends say it's neat
and way out
she added
as you scanned
the sleeve
where we going?
you asked
drink I must have a drink
she said
how’s things
at the hospital?
usual stuff: treatment
drugs to get me
off drugs
therapy
psychiatrists
nurses
and so on
you?
she asked
I’m ok
you said
ok is crap
ok is boring
is mediocre
life either *****
or it’s exciting
and over the top
she said
the Square was crowded
people
and pigeons
and water
and sun
and sky
and mixture
of perfumes
and bus fumes
let’s get that drink
she said
and so you went off
to a bar off
Trafalgar Square
and ordered two drinks
and sat outside
in the sunshine
I think the fat nurse
on my ward suspects us
she said
suspects what?
you asked
you and me
and that small room
o that
you said
she took out
a cigarette pack
and took out
two cigarettes
and gave one
to you and lit
them both
think she’s jealous
or envious
Julie said smiling
free love
makes some women angry
Schopenhauer said
somewhere
that wives and ******
despise women
who give ***
away free
it undermines
their contracts
how’s Jamie?
you asked
still locked up
she said
they claim
he was supplying
but he wasn’t
they ******* him up
she inhaled
and searched
your eyes
you still playing
your saxophone?
yes
you said
I practice everyday
annoys
the neighbours
sometimes
but got to
keep up with it
and hone the skills
she sat legs crossed
her thighs exposed
her footwear bright
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the lips red
her eyes
like small mirrors
small **** pressed
against the red top
the memory
of that small room
off the ward
she and you
and brooms
and boxes
and such
and kisses
and ***
and on edge
for the door to open
but not overmuch.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Sectioning out the number of loses in my
History from exs to family,
There's a thing called holy Trinity,
Hope my life will get better soon from all the
Healing,
If there was a chance,
Id take it,
I'm ready and willing,
I usually stay out of problems that my neighborhood
Portrays,
Got a bundle full of fake friends that simply know
My name,
Had to hold on to the memories of prices I paid,
But after awhile I got tired and just perished away,
Now that I'm operation ghost I can not speak to anyone,
Stay inside everyday and paranoia is really fun,
Sarcasm is one of the things I picked up from this
Experience,
I'm changing all of my appearances to something
More conspicuous,
This is getting more and more ridiculous,
And I just keep fighting this anxiety while I stay
Anonymous,
Staying hidden from the world, no more psychiatrists,
You think I'm missing sanity well I'm not missing this,
I just hope I'm in the clear.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
I'm sick
I'm sick of it all
The doctors
Counsellors
Psychologists
Psychiatrists
Medication
And
I'm sick
I'm sick of me
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Dean Roberts had two homes
One was in port Adelaide and the other was in rhw Adelaide hills and he lived in the adelaide hills but he had paranoid mates living 3 doors down from his Port Adelaide home
You see there were squatters living there making everyone living around there scared to leave their homes and this usually happened every night from 4pm till dawn and then it appeared to be early but nobody went near the hooise except for dean Roberts who was hermless but the residents
Of the nearby homes barocsded themselves in their homes and there were psychiatrists around for anyone who becomes too scared to cross the main road and making sure no vunerable person was struggling getting to where they wanted to go or where they lived and dean Roberts was unaware of all this because there was no sign of people living there and dean's best friend Toni was the target in some way, you see she lived in the house opposite that house
And she called the police numerous times which forced cars to follow her making her look very scared but she still wanted to help the police remove them so she used herself as bait to catch them
But this was easy for them but Toni was in danger of losing her life making her scream so loud
But while Toni was with them dean was trapped inside his port Adelaide home but he broke the window and iinstead of going home to the hills he slept in his car waiting for the
Squatters to come back and When they did dean grabbed a broom and came in there saying come on get out of my house and then while that was going on Toni was panicking crossing the road making it half way across and then going back especially after they took her from her place of work and dumped her at the lights making her scared to hold someone even the police
Cause she watches the news where people dress up as police to take advantage of ladies like Toni and after dean got rid of the squatters for bow
He drove home with people yelling out to him hi mr hero
With people bipping their horn
Saying you are port Adelaide's
Hero but Toni was still struggling to get home and this forced the police to grab her and take her home
To take her medication and go to bed and one of the squatters returned and was caught and shoved in Ron coopers psych ward where he was put on eppelim and he was forced to one day tell them why he lived in dean Roberts property and squatter said his name was ken
Psrtley and Ron gave ken an injection of abilify to calm
Him down and Ron went back home and had pizza and coke
While ken was stuck in a Place he hated and Toni was still paranoid about crossing that road and dean helped her get through this like a friend would
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC