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Mari Gee May 2010
Welcome to Psychotics Anonymous.  State your name, and little about yourself:

My name is not important.

I have a problem.
I don’t tend to preoccupy myself with others’ problems.
See, I don’t care about my friends, loved ones, or myself as much as I should.
I mean, obviously, I realize that  I don’t care about these things, but my problem is that I don’t know the real reason why I don’t care about them. I know I have a problem, but I don’t know how to fix it. Think of it this way,  you know when you look at roadkill on the road, you might feel sorry for it, for about a second, then you blow it off and keep driving. Some people might kick it or laugh at it, if they walk  by. Well see, that’s how I feel about important people in my life , and at times, about myself.  I’m the one kicking that road **** while its down. Except the road ****….is my best friend. Do I mean what I do? I’m not entirely sure, but I do know that it’s wrong.  I know that I should care, I know that I’m a bad person for it, but I don’t know why I still do it anyway. I have a problem. My best friend is in the hospital and I’m sitting home writing this instead of visiting her while she’s 10 minutes away. Instead of apologizing  and telling her it was my fault. I’m sitting here not caring instead of going up to her and telling her the truth she needs to hear. I have a problem. My family’s a woodpile on the side of my house. The wood I never use but I like to glance at from time to time and then ignore a few seconds later. That woodpile’s pretty close to me, its always in my proximity, but yet…I never seem to care that it’s there. But I notice it. Oh, how I do notice it. I notice it so much that I pretend to not notice it because my lack of caring for the noticing of this woodpile is the only thing that matters. I have a problem. My brother is sitting on my mantle, every day he stares into my eyes, hoping and wishing I would care. Every day he’s there reminding me that he not only needs to be noticed, he needs to be cared about, and so do I. And every day I ignore him and that photograph with that picture perfect Ivy League smile.I have a problem. I don’t care for myself. I don’t really do much grooming. I mean, I shave…because I hate touching my face and feeling prickles. I don’t cut my hair, I don’t shower until I start smelling. I don’t care. I work at the one place where caring doesn’t matter. I work counting other people’s money. I don’t get into trouble or miscount because miscounting annoys me and everything has to be perfect.  It needs to be counted right, or what’s the point of counting it? It’s not because I care for the welfare of the people I count money for. Au contraire, they have more money than I do and don’t deserve my care. I have a problem. Don’t tell me I’m doing okay because I’ve completed step one of your program, because I’ve admitted that I have a problem. I’ve just said it five times. I knew I’ve had a problem before I got here. That’s not the hard part. I want to care. I want to feel empathy, or at least sympathy. I want be like everyone else. But the hard part, is that I’m not. I’m not like everyone else. And though I’ve recognized my problems they’ll always stay with me regardless of how much you try to push them out of me. You can tell me to go to these therapy sessions til I’m seventy-five, but the only thing that it’ll do is just show you how many more problems I’ve come to discuss.
Another Prose. I know...I'm not supposed to put prose on a poetry site, but whatever. I'm doing it. Enjoy :)
Grace Jordan Sep 2014
There's a feeling I've felt hindering on the tip of my tongue, twirling with sawdust at the end of my bed. Its tingled my toes and tickled my nose and killed all hopes that this is just happiness.

Sleep is for figments and products of sanity, neither of which I can claim heritage. Well perhaps figments in the waking hours of the darkness, but that is a tale for another time.

I can feel his fingertips stroking my sides, reminding me what it is to feel human and vulnerable and perfect. Didn't know he boosted me ego and turned me into the self absorbed maniac you see before you today. Tyrant, remembrr? Oh wait, that's another tale altogether again.

I ramble in the night, in the morning, all the time. My thoughts wander with echoing clarity to encompass the truth about me; not everything is quite right. The teacups are lopsided at the unbirthday table tonight.

Yet again, speaking in riddles and stories unbeknownst to you. Stupid me, stupid Grace, stupider you. Why are you so open to my madness anyway? Maybe you're the crazy one.

This sick godlike embodiment I feel is one I forget isn't real, isn't me, isn't life. But wait. Its a part of me, so perhaps it is real as well? Call a jury, wake a judge, there must be a verdict on my elation. Am I a minor deity or are the synapses playing some cruel joke on my heartstrings?

Heartstrings, why did I bring them into this? I have shut them off for now, for they are dumb and deaf to honesty and logic and do whatever the hell they feel. Or is it whatever the heaven? I forget sometimes where the real misery is, or how the expression goes. I've never quite gotten everything right, being as upside down as I.

Insomnia brings out the manic in me, and I know its not real, but for a moment, just a moment, I belong. I am real, I am loved, I am powerful. Weak little Grace is no more, with her fears and contradictions. Just strength is left, and it is glorious.

Just remember not to let the heffelumps get you in the night, for they are the true evil behind your honey ***. Or am I a heffelump? I can't remember anymore.

This is going nowhere, everywhere, somewhere.

Wake me up inside before I destroy myself, or simply perpetuate my perfection with a caress of your hand. Whatever suits your fancy.

Call me Aphrodite and we'll call it a night after hours of mindblowing ***. But you expected that all along, of course you did, because you know my bones better than we both realize.

When you put your hands on me I feel ****. But yet again, right now I an perpetually **** and twitchy and awake and fake. Dare you to kiss me anyway.

Dare you to see me, psychotics and all.

Bet you'll run like the rest, yet like all good hiders its refreshing to be found every once in awhile.

Find me, and see. See the monster behind my beautiful eyes. That's the day when you'll see what true danger looks like; me.

Insomnia makes me odd, but yet again I'm always odd.

Little miss muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and craves, for a man betwixt her to tell her she's killer and make her a siren next day.

Forget, no, yes, its all I do. Its not how that goes, for sirens are certainly not temporary. I am certainly a black widow every day, not just each odd thursday.

Go to bed, Grace. I beg of you.

Close my eyes and say goodnight to the beloved moon, for the sun is nearly up and it certainly hates me, I am sure of it.

Just never forget all this is wrapped up in one little old me. No one seems to remember that until its far too late, so might as well run now, because otherwise little miss muffet here on her tuffet will be the death of you.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, ******-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
The Quiet Poet Dec 2014
What if
we are all psychotic
but we just don't realize
because we are surrounded
by other psychotics...
Anna Oct 2013
Colours pop
And seep too far into my head
Nauseous blues and greens and reds
Tangle thought
And sit in my stomach like lead
I think this is what it feels like
to be even somewhat a normal person?

Is that what it feels like
to be stable?
Not sad?
Not manic?
No some god-awful mixture
of both at the same time?

I don't have much to say.
I only write poems when I'm sad.
Or manic.
Or mixed.
And I'm not.

I'm really not.
10 things I love about myself
1.My unending desire to express myself. I think self expression is key to sanity.
2.Related to 1, is my creativity as an artist. If we instilled the driving force of healthy self expression we would not have near the amount of violence, war, crime, psychotics, drug use etc that we do in society. As a whole the world seems to strive to stuff or hide feelings, I think that is harmful and denial of true self, or of wholeness. On a personal level this saves my very life.
3. My ability to use all negative,bad, traumatizing experiences as a tool of/as Understanding of Universal Human suffering. We are given experiences to understand our fellow man, I do my best to do so with my own experiences.
4. My Compassion, , nuff said
5. Eating my fears for breakfast..or trying to! Facing my fears, and challenging my fears..self quests.
6. Beginners Mindset, I am so very thankful I break for butterflies and pull over for cloud crossings, I near tear with joy at wet rainy sidewalks and the glow of stop lights on wet pavement, may I always honor this special aspect of who I am~ I see the world in a way I wish never to lose, only to expand.
7. Learning to honor my body~ Gaining self respect through self care! I love myself enough to care for myself now, far more than I ever did before!
8. Acceptance that all aspects of myself are pure. My self expression is not ****, and as I see it, I am simply unafraid to be me! My expression is pure! I shall accept no shame about it.
9. My ability to accept change with a laugh. I do not stress, stress just adds stress on top of other stuff that needs to be dealt with, it is a distraction!! laugh, move forward and know everything will work itself out..it always does! My inner joy keeps me young.
10.My Energy-Body Consciousness, my ability to sense, to direct energy, to honor the tools that God gave everyone ; )
Lexander J Apr 2015
Locked away in the dankest corner
bloodied fingers frantically pawing the ground,
a lonesome girl of nineteen, distraught and weeping,
too afraid to utter a sound.

With filthy hair matted upon her forehead
and an eyelid that's split in two -
all she wears is linen rags tied around her waist
whereupon the crotch, ***** slowly seeps through.

It was always her dream to be a singer
to cherish a life of fortune and fame -
alas one nasty twist of events changed everything,
subjecting her to a life of abuse and excruciating pain.

Once a sweet little girl singing songs in the school yard,
now a schizophrenic teen, living in warped fantasy -
care workers leaving her to lie in her own faeces
as doctors discuss psychosis, and even lobotomy.

Fast-forward to seven weeks later,
wheelchair-bound, with nails so long they've began to curl,

gazing at this giggling black-eyed freak,

never would you believe it's the same girl...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.well, if this boyscout contra girl-scout debate it going to rage on... whatever the problem, and whatever the conclusion... shouldn't just the boyscout brigade start baking cookies in the shape of a phallus and *******? with white sprinkles on the tip, and brown sprinkles on the base?

what has become of that famous
three worded statement? you know it...
gott ist tot...
      well...
               isn't it glaring, right in your
face?
          you really can't have gender
neutrality in certain languages...
   because most of the nouns impose
gender discrimination...
for example, in ******...
    the sun (słońce) is feminine...
while the moon (księżyc) is masculine...
you can't achieve gender
neutrality... because the words
already discriminate for themselves...
the English language is gender
neutral...
         unlike any other European
languages...
   no wonder then...
it's befitting that the death of metaphysics
would culminate in English
with what was to replace it...
   trans-physics...
            it's like the English language
has created this trans-physical
"realism" of (a) reality that...
                      so... you closed the asylums,
let the melancholics and the schizophrenics
out...
          and in come the new crazies...

this will balance out at some point,
benzene ring orientation of
groups... CH3 and what not...

first came the meta-physics...
that died with gott ist tot..
   and from the ashes arose
           the mind-****** of trans-physics...
the Peter Pan physics...
the asylum was abandoned,
the crazies took to the streets,
there were trans-rights,
there were trans-activists,
a whole plethora of trans-this
and trans-that...
            and... well... the discrimination
and ridicule-inducing rhetoric
concerning the classically mad...
the melancholic, the hypochondriacs,
the psychotics and the schizophrenics...
eggshells tip-toe:
bend over backwards for the new crazies...

hell... appease the new crazies
and shove the classical mad into the gutter...
because you know the new crazies
do not have violent tendencies,
or for that matter, masochism incumbent...
me? i such think they're *******
pathetic... their delusions are...
precisely:
         without metaphysical groundwork,
they are imposing
   a fake, more than obvious skew of
reality...
                if i see an Adam's apple
or no geisha hands on a trans-"woman"?
i can't double-think,
contradict what my senses
immediately recognize...
so... all the metal heads with their
long hair... i'm supposed to think
they were men?
                  
metaphysics apparently died at the end
of the 19th century...
but what replaced?
        it's not pretty... trans-physics is
the boogie on the side of bogus...
anti-gravity...
          anti- i can see this is suspicious...

well... at least with metaphysics
   meta- (the after)
    there was no exact certainty,
the kind of daydreaming of heaven or
hell...
              after the physics...
there is no after-the-physics...
  the orbits prevail...
        and when a sun dies,
   a black hole remains...
                         there is no after...
and... esp. with the discover of antimatter...
death is but a massive yawn...

but trans-physics?
this period, this transition period?
                 this is not beyond physics...
this is not Wonderland, this is not Peter Pan...
this is not going to, ******* ride on a whim...
a delusion...
                        last time i heard physics
is about rigidity, and less about
                        what chemistry deals with...
the mandible aspect of physics,
the reaction of at least two things interacting...
physics can, in part, deduce the
noumenon interaction,
for example the electron is in no way
affected by the proton or the neutron
            with regards to its ontological schematic...
                            1 0 -1
- nonetheless, this is a transition period,
after this trans-physics period of...
i'd say 100 years before the omni- consensus
of society balances out...
               there will be a time
where ortho-physics will take over...
straight physic, upright physics...

                   and then?
if you think that this trans-physical period
was weird...
                            the natural antonym
of metaphysics will enter...
   where nothing will be normal, normal
about para-physics...
            life and death will sit side by side...
life past, life beyond, life by death...
death past, death beyond, death by life;
we have a long way to go.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
they rarely get it spot on,
the side effects of anti-psychotics makes you
**** your bed after going against
the prescription allowances of being sober,
and with regards to a cognitive illness: suddenly
thinking is an illness walking sensibly down
the street with a beer -
the whole inherited aspect of it? like it runs in the family?
well... my great-grandmother almost thought
she was losing it - but she was on the front line of
world war ii, giving my grandmother opiates
to hush her so the werhmacht wouldn’t find them in hiding,
she was from a large family, as was usual at the time,
and most of them didn’t make it -
but then my grandfather’s orientation in this realm
of “illness” probably started when he still remembers
asking two blackshirt ss-men for some sweets and getting them,
then becoming a communist and seeing communism “fail”
thanks to john paul ii.
my take on “thinking is an illness, all thinking is an illness
in the hands of psychiatrists?”
dating a tsarina, being poisoned to near death
by a best fwend - and probably dropping a baby into her lap -
now the question is... how well informed i am
given the condition: everyone’s permitted a personal life,
a private life, a life a third party knows nothing about -
patchwork jigsaw and crosswords all in one go -
which suits the fact that drinking as the time passes
makes all my director’s cut scenarios of the same corner of my life
seem more entertaining - well i could add that
the best chemistry experiment i ever did was at school:
two clear liquids, clearly not mixing like fruit juice concentrate and water,
so they’re sitting there, one on top of the other,
and then... magic! using forceps you pull at the event horizon,
and what you pull out are strands of polyester (polyethylene terephthalate).
so i’m not buying into this psychiatry school of thought
that attempts to cure the colonial white man of repressed anger
and lost self-esteem voyaging to kingston and shanghai
pulverising guilt with oxfam adverts just to employ charity workers
and not sending money to the needy,
but being interrogated by about 10 different sick doctors
you learn their thinking: almost all want you to talk
about your childhood, because there is an inherent need to use
the psychiatric scalpel (i.e. the id) to cut with and find your
ego, attired in diapers, talking about your parents (the superego),
but oddly enough not the supra-ego (i.e. your grandparents) -
considering the fact that the major part of my development is
due to joseph “stalin” and helen, and my great grandmother mary...
but enough about that... i relish on saying this word:
******-synthesis, because such is the primitive nature of psychoanalysis
originating in the upper tiers of the marxist pyramid:
they're synthesising is to be as soulless as
their analysis allows drilling as far in as the faculty of dreaming.
but i guess we all become “complicated” human beings
after european industry becomes exported to china,
drop the hammer and the steel, learn to write learn to
read, become sensibly sympathetic and curiously
sensitive and bam: you're a qualified patient!
and added to the fact that the existential parting with god
only precipitated a complication of the individual man, purposively:
god became infinitely simple (i.e. seized to exist)
and thus man entered the glorious existential domain
of scrutinising and itemising every misery, every pleasure,
every thought, every feeling,
then adding to the sheer outburst of the populations,
he soon too realised - well i don’t really exist either, unless i’m
constantly striving for some sort of recognition other than my own,
hence the solipsistic debasement in existentialism? or
the antidote: solipsistic dignity in the realm of post-existentialism?
i know the answer - how? i’m already using it and the two
questions are meaningless to me - as i already testified inventing
a god: solipsus - purposively; the liberated / pardoned sisyphus
from the toils of the stone, by the wise zeus.
mannley collins Jul 2014
that needs or wants  to join and experience the "discipline"?.
Either taking or  giving--we are two way.
All formed from the Isness of the Universe.
male or female,preferably under the age of death of body?
Youthful in appearance.
No fatties or druggies.
Well mannered and trustworthy.
Frustrated for ******.
Reach it through Tantra.
Players of instruments.
(but NOT others styles and energies)
can you travel?
India or Amsterdam or Deia or Kathmandu?.
No wage slaves.
No poets.
No inhibitions.
No taboos.
No deranged or psychotics.
Preferably practising Raja students.
No cost.
Except total dissolution of Mind and Conditioned Identity.
DCM Feb 2016
Drowning my antidepressant with a cup of tea, waiting for sleep to overtake me.
I've learn to ignore the begging of my stomach, I only have enough energy to feed one *****, and my heart is screaming for attention.

"If you take these pills you'll get out of bed" One pill two pills three pills four.
I'm out of bed and on the floor, crying silent tears.

"If you take these pills you'll worry less"
One pill two pills three pills four.
No weary thoughts cross my mind,
I'm indulged in sleep that seems to be the reason why.
Isn't this medicine supposed to keep me out of bed?

"If you take these pills you'll learn self harm isn't the answer"
One pill two pills three pills four.
I haven't binged in a week, I've been too busy with a panic attack spree.
If this isn't self harm then its self sabotage.

"If you take these pills you may have some side effects"
One pill two pills three pills- a
years supply later.

My face is stained with tears.
That seems to be the only thing I feel.
I think I'm done.
Or so I  wish it was done.

I take four green pills.
I'm addicted and scared.
I reach for more by force of habit,
Before I finish I'm consumed by darkness.


...

No I didn't overdose on anti psychotics,
but i've had my last dose of self pity.
Diagnosed, but not cured.
Enough with the pills.
Enough with these journal entries, and pitiful pep talks.
Enough with self indulgence.
I'm ill, not dead.
Sixteen years lived,
Two years defining me as anxious and depressed.
Its 2016 I call this "The Awakening"
If you fight for your sanity your drug intake won't define you.

One pill two pills three-
Who's counting?
Medication and therapy can help but ultimately it's up to you to get better. The scary things is it's not a demon nor a shadow it's all in your head. You didn't choose to have this disorder but you can choose to fight it.
david mitchell Oct 2017
do you remember when you lost it?
when you would take me hostage?
when you turned caustic?
you used my presence as your very own mental whetstone.
you called yourself psychotic,
called our words cautious, hypnotic,
but they were toxic.
they were exhaustive.
talks of the atlantic,
and how i'd cross it.
"don't worry, my flight stops in austin,
and then again in boston, i promise.
honest, i'll even book in august."
but then we tossed it,
there was a line,
and you crossed it.
sometimes you got so reckless, so hostile,
that i felt like your chaperone.
we both had to learn how to grow,
living in time zones of our own.
the air turned cold,
when we let our emotions show.
but i was lonely too,
so at least you weren't alone.
you acted as my bright summer sun,
setting my world aglow.
but every time you said hello,
i remembered how much i missed the snow.
an accidental double overdose of smoldering shoulders left me with none cold enough to hold my golden burdens.
tastes; exotic.
brain; neurotic.
mind; chaotic.
gods; agnostic,
friends; narcotics.
hope; quixotic.
love; psychotic.
(when two insane people have a close relationship interesting things happen.)
(this one is for h-bomb, and broken fishbowls.)
So I just sat there
thinking
Letting my thoughts use my skull
as a punching bag
stressing myself over the inevitable
People die, they walk away
Or run
whichever way will get them
away from you as fast as possible.

My body just sat there
And for two hours
I existed
I became one with the insignificant things
The broken chair in the corner of the room
The piece of paper on the floor
The stains on the window
The stake of empty instrument boxes
For two hours I tortured myself.

Kept telling the people in the room to be quiet
But truth is, its the voices in my head that were making
The loudest noise
"YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH"they chanted
"YOU ARE A FAILURE" they said
"YOU ARE YOUR OWN PROBLEM" they accused
"THATS WHY SHE........"
"THATS WHY SHE......"
I had to slap myself to send the voices running

And I know it might be quiet I my head
But it doesn't mean they are gone
The voices have become good at playing hide and seek
The anti-psychotics don't seem to be  working anymore

So I decided to take a walk
I took exactly 421 steps
That got me to a place
I cant even call a safe haven
Because when you are fighting with something
That is in your head
A brick wall is only there to fall

After sitting in the dark for 10 minutes
I switched on my light
hoping its blinding brightness will chase away
the darkness in me
For a few minutes  covered my ears
As the voices in my head screamed
HOW COULD YOU?
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
YOU CANT LIVE WITHOUT US

It was after that statement
That I took out the courage
I had hidden under my bed
And unlocked the box that contained
My voice and I said
YOU ARE WRONG, I CANT LIVE
WITHOUT MEEEE!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i can't say much about today, well, i probably will,
made a burger and did house chores with Steptoe,
and i know what you're thinking -
the common trend in western society, you actually
like familial interactions, you're not into
7 year itches, you're not inclined to conjure up
Norman Bates all of a sudden - you're content,
quiet respectably normal - and to be frank,
the following as happened to me: the psychoanalytic
technique of regression, i.e. planting false memories
when being psychoanalysed - page 25 of Friday
July the 8th 2016 the times newspaper - headline:
THERAPIST FACES CLAIM OF "BRAINWASHING"
GIRLS - she implanted in them a Freddy Krueger -
a reverse Friday the 13th scenario -
one psychiatrist tried it on me - he hushed the words:
'oh... he was abused as a child' - but the pronoun
usage was already wrong, or simply odd -
this sort of musing aloud got to me worked up,
i said nothing, i continued with an interview, i had a few,
don't you worry, they passed me around like hot charcoal,
they couldn't put a box on me, (bragging? on this subject,
just the reality of what happened) - they employed about
five psychiatrists and two students to decipher me,
i was holding the joker card every time -
they couldn't understand that a real physical ailment
could be translated into metaphysical ailments -
if you mean metaphysics turned into a lysergic acid-like
experience then i might as well have talked to the police -
five of them, none bothered to use the funding the
national health service gets to book an m.r.i. scan,
they prescribe psychiatric drugs assuming your brain
is a sponge that soaked up a chemical soup -
i'm talking natural sedatives, alcohol, not synthetic sedatives:
anti-psychotics. the structure of the family breaks down
in the west, but it's fine, we have legal partnerships
and gay marriage - i guess the latter is the only positive,
but like any married couple, the nagging will invariably
enter the scene, and given that heterosexual marriages break
down, i'm hardly going to bet on homosexual marriages
being the maiden voyage of Titanic without the iceberg.
so 5 of them, beaten to the core, but only this recent story
made me think of the inherent sadism in psychiatry,
regression "therapy" whereby i did for a moment play out
the trick and thought about what sort of abuse i might
have suffered as a child... oh, that time i taught myself
how to ******* aged 8? well, that's self-abuse -
and a pretty good one i might add, few people will *******
and feel ******* but not the end product, or maybe
just me - so Ms. A (as is noted in Poland when a criminal
is identified) did this regression tactic to break up families,
she might have failed hers, and strategically invoked the failures
into other people - we already know that psychiatrists are
very sick people, we just don't know how sadistic they can be
by being subtle in their methods... after all... thought
equated to the senses is 5 times more fragile, and more
sensual if you think about it - all the senses bundled up into
one function, and we don't necessarily know what that
function is taking away a Cartesian moment of realisation,
your daily chores, your professional web of utilities,
after all, what is thinking? fail-safety-mechanism in philosophy?
ask a question - the alternative of a ¶, a new paragraph.
so when a society shuns public intellectualism, philosophers
poets... who do you think will enter in their place in terms
of political dynamics? yep, the men in white coats with pills...
pills pills pills... nothing more, and bogus theories half
expanded and half shunned by a zoological treatment of
human beings - i know there are exceptions, a man last year
stabbed a pensioner 30 times over a minor traffic-accident,
he was labelled a paranoid schizophrenic... oddly enough
i too was labelled that... a 5 minute diagnostic session,
man comes in, i say - a woman across the street is walking
around naked, and so are her daughters... i'm getting this
****** fuelled fantasy working on me, can you tell her to
invest in curtains? i don't mind the naked bit,
but imagining doing a mother and two daughters is a bit
too much for my pigeon brain.
the stimuli ingested by the senses are nothing compared
to what stimuli thinking ingests -
it's less the sun the moon a summer breeze,
and more McDonald, Gucci: pseudo-capitalism with
your generic schizoid symptom - insinuations.
oh believe me, faking this condition out of personal-interest
was necessary - to fake it, to take an interest in it
to see what the other side was doing about it left me
with an inexhaustible source of resources: experience.
i think i'll end the intro and tell you something else.

two books on my lap, Jung's *answer to Job

and the long hard road out of hell - a semi-autobiographic
by Marilyn Manson and neil strauß -
so before you think i write about religious matters
like some cuckoo evangelist having a library of
only one book and a lot to talk about, i don't -
but we live in times where everyone imitated someone,
that someone is already obvious -
funny though, the Greeks invented the concept
of Antichrist... without knowing that the concept
of anti-matter would pop up about 2000 years later -
a coincidence you say? not given the Atomists
Leucippus and Democritus - the theory of anti-matter,
but in a religious person?! travesty you scream!
john of πατμoς - he had the anticipation of anti-matter
like the Atomists cited (obviously there were some
in the east - the Jain Genies - modern day scenes
from Tokyo and Beijing - wouldn't eat a ladybird
or sniff up an airborne microbe) - but hell, if Johnny
~anticipated anti-matter, but really didn't, why
was the anti person invoked? it took all the dereliction
of religion to provide the basis for anti-matter,
and that's no surprise, it makes it easier to think of
another world, no scientist would come up with it,
because only a religious person would somehow conjure
up a mechanism whereby what was once matter turned
into anti-matter, or a version of Christ that reads,
writes, and doesn't give sermons... well, why not?
let's go crrrrazy. yet the main point of this entry is, well,
the profanity Christianity took to when learning about
the tetragrammaton, there's much beauty in it, and yet
for Christianity a crucifix is somehow an improvement...
benedictio fontis (blessing of the fountain), the sign
of the cross is made - Catholics make it on themselves:
forehead, left right, stab at the heart and then
romeo:
if i profane with my unworthiest hand
this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
to smooth that rough toush with a tender kiss.
juliet:
good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much
                                                  (you **** a lot),
which mannerly devotion shows is this;
for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm in holy palmers' kiss;
Orthodox Greek and Russian: forehead, right left,
stab at the heart - hey, why not put a few together,
you know, those gesticulations -
(index, thumb and ******* - the "holy trinity"
in Braille) forehead, left right right left (****,
where's a traffic warden when you need one),
and then hand clenched into a fist... smack... a mea culpa
straight away - honestly, god to a Polish Catholic mass...
go to one... you'll end hearing a Satanic murmur
roaming through the crowd, esp. as the creed of faith
being said... shivers down the spine.
but that's what's written in Jung - from the eloquence
of yhwh to † - in effect a bit more than Christian sign language,
more like the acronym n.e.w.s. - north east west south -
and when he said kneel, he replied don't tempt me,
and when he said kneel and all the kingdoms will be yours,
someone ordered chicken chow mein in defiance
to the moment, and China remained with Confucius,
predictably confused when the one-child state policy came
into effect - ever wonder why they play that pebble
game at the Hajj? you think they're throwing a pebble
at a raw Rodin block of stone before the chisel was aimed
thinking they'll throw a pebble and get two pebbles back?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.where we going? asks an old crazy... i reply: we're, heading for the 1980s disco inferno! happy? **** yeah... good good, we're bringing Helen of Troy with us... happy? **** yeah! in the interlude some jokes about the, cue... modern crazies; hope you have a pleasant journey.

this is forced, lady Nikita / Natasha /
***** is forcing me to unwind
my tongue in this topic...

so... whenever i self-lacerate,
watching videos by someone like
laineybot...
and her... whatever...
"her"... please, define the masculine /
feminine nature of the word...
chair... i'm dying to know....
oh wait, in English, the grammatical
consensus suggests that
the word, chair...
was, and is, and will be,
gender "neutral"...

me? i'm worried about the PTSD,
the psychotics, the schizophrenics
mind you...

so... transgender "boy" = manic pixie
dream girl?
   **** me... show me your hands...
if i see traits of a geisha...
nope... non-passable...
but a girl with short hair?
so hot...

        so... excluding the PTSD
and the psychotics, the schizophrenics?
hurting?
hurting?
               well...
let's listen to how the following
categorized people...
start, randomly shooting people...
so... who's hurting who, p'ooh bear?

do we seriously need this *******,
where a girl who dons short hair,
and looks like a pixie,
is magically a "boy"?!
                                  what?!
she's just a ******* pixie!
   god... a girl with short hair is so
******* ****...
           why do we have get into
all this defensive *******
about trans-gender?!
i get trans-generation,
i like Roy Orbison...
   but that's not a protected Koala /
Panda project!

oooooooooooooh
ooooooooooooooooooooooh
we w'ah w'allah...
                   no, you lost me...
i started curating to the old school
crazies...
the PTSD, the psychotics,
the schizophrenics...
you know, the ones ready to arm
themselves with a full set of teeth,
M15s and machetes...

so i should be worried
about transgender "males"...
who are actually **** pixie
girls armed with short-haircuts
and strap-on ******?!

i need to watch these sort of videos...
i need...
this self-laceration...
the girl's a ******* pixie!
and she's "thinking" she's a boy
because she's donning the sort of
clothes (baggy) when i took
up skateboarding!

i'm seriously going to concentrate
on the old crazies...
they're the ones with plans...
and the sort of plans...
that usually have the patron "saint"
Shiva behind them...
Shiva? the auspicious one...
   the successful one...
most of the proper crazies' attacks...
actually end up
satisfying the grim reaper.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
the world is so stiff bored; i'm losing hope in writing an Elvis Costello song... jut can't be bothered to feed jealousy, it's s exhausting, i can make racist jokes with my father and my mother like they did to us... who gives a ****, Western society already told me ii had an incubator of hate in me that needed repression, even though i wasn't part of a colonial escapade... nonetheless, white skin = psychiatric evaluation.... what a load of *******...*

happy?
            i said: are you happy?!
no, i bet you aren't, in a supermarket
isle, daydreaming while playing
dungeons and dragons trying to escape,
gamers ahoy, a ******* ***-rubric
of the barrel tilting for a refill -
my misogyny? from experience...
they day western society overly
made sacrifices on the altar of psychology
like it were an Aztec pyramid...
god does not exist, but an un-destructible
unit of man does, hence we have to destroy that
for a completion of secularisation and ****
with psychology, or vice versus zoology,
the caged soul in body, the caged body in a barring,
left-wingers awoke the far-right...
i wrote a poem everyday... journalists wrote an article
in the print... every day...
the former was a waste of time, the latter a
bulletproof testament of a career...
poetry done at a leisurely pace isn't quiet
significant, Ezra's testament,
any art sidelined, after all all art is sidelined
to partake in big bangs while keeping up
the cashier's suggestion of busy...
i mean, i can see the point of perpetually creating,
but even if god, i see a plateau, a stasis,
an ontological bias... through to origin
a quick sentencing of the nature of activity...
every criticism of western society i endorse with
full approval, given the fact that when
receiving a brain haemorrhage i was treated
as a schizophrenic... treated with anti-psychotics
******* my bed... i wasn't even in prison...
i was in society! well, "society"...
civilisation... i just can't be bothered no longer...
it's pointless, idiocy pays supreme allowances,
it's just ******* painful to have to act out a lie
when it's not necessary...
at least the Holocaust culprits had insignia,
and trials at Nuremberg - i just heard laughs and
'oh yeah, Mad Matt, ******* cuckoo he he!',
i don't have sympathy - i don't have empathy,
you contract cancer? die from cancer;
why would you expect me to feed a human dynamic
if i wasn't fed a human dynamic?
you laugh at me, i'll pick up a ******* shovel
and dig you a grave!
Binary code

Life to me is similar to
Binary code cause your either a one
Or your a zero not to be cruel like Nero
but that's just how it runs

Rich or poor zero and one
Not in the sense of you don't matter
But in the sense that some climb the
same corporate ladder

That others like me must of walked under
so zero represents hunger
And it maybe crazy to be labelled a statistic
but your always a number

Like a jail bird in prison social security
or even a credit score
Even prostitutes on escort websites
Are rated with a score

Your age, your salary,were all ******
It's not limited to profession
Even the priest tells u how many prayers
to say after confession

Racing time minutes from seconds
That accumulate to hours
9/11 two towers and 24 hours
In a day 7 days a week for power

We struggle hoping our troubles
Are more subtle hopin Donald trump
Isn't quoted by your boss
saying "your fired", a year is 12 months

But Friday the 13th if superstitious
Means 666 may send viscous
Demons while millions of ******
Are released in one ******* visit

Your height and weight, 6 pack
A perfect 10 describes good looks
5 stars tell how well your hotel is to dwell
but 187s a ****** and all crooks

Know tha 5.0 isn't a lottery# took
but a warning to book it or be booked
But in life we all have a 50/50 chance
if we really try but to look

With perfect eye sight is harder than just
having a 20/20 vision
Gotta watch for fakes that send over scams
til ur bent over, ****,,..now your  wishin

It could all be equal like positions
Designed so everyone can find
A balance of there talents a give and take,
if you will.... even like a.... 69?

Give me yours and here's mine
But nothing's that even, but as for odd
There's a lot of odd, cuz ppl are odd
And odds are someone will rob

You of your dignity. Money or job
Til too high is the number of your
Blood pressure that'll measure
if u need a stretcher and now to be sure

Let's check the number of your temperature
cuz outside it's 30 plus
But it feels more like 50 below zero
When your visa statement erupts

After your wife of number 10 years
of marriage decided to make
Another negative number work against you
at a 17% interest rate

It's all numerical I'm hysterical
Comparable to psychotics unrepairable
And after all this numerology psychologically
ima be damaged cuz its labotomy type terrible

All I want is some fresh bread for a sandwich
and to relax with a beer but first
I had to go to the bakery to get the fresh bread
and of course what occured....

I stand in line for such a long time
And got annoyed I wasn't served
So I yell what the hell, only to hear them tell
me  "please take a number sir "

Life...... life to me is similar to binary code
cause your either a numer one
Or your a zero .....
not to be cruel like Nero but that's just how it runs....


...... Ones and zeros I tell ya...
Ones an zeros......
.. If your not a one....
whoa whoa whoa
hold up
love addiction in progress
exit to the left
wave goodbye
to rational thought
buckle in buttercup
this ride has highs that feel like
20 hot rails
like getting away from the police when they gave chase and you're riding
hot as ****
it takes you to bliss but watch out for the tail
that fall from ten stories high that withdrawal
I internally panic and do nothing to avoid
the craving
the need
the unrelenting urge to reengage and get another hit
to avoid that 4am empty as a shell feeling
like
the whole world
caved in on itself
and
your ego is dying by eating itself alive
I play this game and tell myself
not
this
time
but it is exactly
when those two words form
in my thoughts
that my head feels
like the mind of ten psychotics spouting word salad  
at full volune
all at once
cognitive dissonance is a *****
oh hell yes the pleasure is exquisite but the pain is
the pain
the death knell
that sweet little reaper
that comes to gather the pieces of your heart spilled on the inside of your Honda civic because you're practical afterall

Nothing to see here
Keep it moving
Time is a cool liquid that flows and resonates through my being
And as I sit here slaving away day by day on man made devices based on prehistoric theories, I feel the angels of death ripping my time out from underneath my feet.
I maybe young but I continue to fret about the bullets that ring in my head and the psychotics that numb my brain into pliable putty.
They try to mold me to fit the social standard and I continue to fight back with the will of a bull and the guilt of a sinner.
I can not continue to castrate my inner self even though it is that of the flames of hell which will never accept me.
I can not continue to wish for the pure white of the wings angels and the dazzling halos of the pure, neither, because I am stuck in my impending cycle of depression and gloom.
Miss Mary Jane only makes me loopy and ***** me up immensely while the nicotine never sedates the destructive curiosity.
I am a slave to my mind and to the pain that bleeds from the bruises and cuts.
I am a slave to the human heart which controls every reenactment of the mistakes my mother bled to hide me from
And for this I cry and plead the words
"I'm sorry!"
But this is never enough.
I will never be enough.
For I am a hopeless little teenage freak that will never learn.
And for this I am truly sorry.
I have not been on in awhile, and for this I am sorry.
©LogenMichel copyright 2015
Richard Riddle Oct 2016
Stereotyping often portrays poets as being brooders, loners,psychotics, manic-depressives, addicts, or just plain "nuts." In other words (in terms of their peers), "normal people." They should be 'French', or know at least three French words, and be able to wear a striped, long sleeve pull-over, topped with a black beret(neck-scarf optional). Should be able to write stuff no one understands, yet readers will pretend they do as long as it reads and sounds 'intellectual'. Must be able to stomach the taste of Espresso, which must come from Starbucks, and enjoy the so-called 'Bohemian' life style. Must be able to sit comfortably with a set of bongo drums between their knees, and continue living in the 50's, the 'Beat Generation." "Maynard G. Krebbs" is their idol.
This is a satirical piece, and written strictly for "entertainment" purposes. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Richard Riddle
Francesca Jul 2013
Anti- depressants didn't work
They took me off
I was doing well without it
But look who got another prescription today
For anti- psychotics
Which scare the **** out of me
And may not even do the trick.
My little birdie, let's call her Donnie, didn’t die with me. She was the sky, the ocean, the air; always there; before there was me; before there was Lily and the schizophrenics she so dearly loved. She chose me through three miscarriages; clung to my slimy wet shoulder from birth in an old British town, and after my heart said, “**** it. I’m done.”

Donnie, who knew me well; whose laser eye cut through my survival shield. Who was there with the ******* and the priest in his long white gown, red, sputtering scooter, and bifocals that saw me before I slid under black sage bushes on Bleak Street. “We must learn to forgive,” he preached, as if he’d previewed the ****** fantasy with the teenage butcher and 12-inch blade; who dreamed of severed jugular veins; who knew their precise anatomical position from Biology 101; who raged through life buoyed by his noble struggle to overachieve, kick poverty in the *** and please his mother. She wanted him to be a shrink who performed lobotomies and lived in a mansion on the hill. But instead, he peddled anti-psychotics and sildenafil.

Donnie, who nixed my flirtation with cremation with her thesis on Casper’s Law. Who waxed poetic on the cycle of life and the critical role of clostridia in butyric fermentation. Who stoked my angst of guns and God; and the Talmud’s curse that justified subjugation of blacks for five hundred years, and gave us Jesus, blond and white with sky blue eyes, and prosperity preachers with a penchant for private jets, Bentleys and pews packed with faithful followers seeking salvation and eternal life but fearing death and the neighbor’s son with sagging jeans, snapbacks and kicks by Kanye West.

Donnie, who worshipped only supreme reality. Who scoffed at the devout deacons and their elegies of compassion after protracted nights of drunken bliss and fornication at the bordello. Who challenged me to read and think independently; and unlearn the trappings of blind faith in a deity unseen that failed to intervene when Baba and Phoebe were yoked, *****, chained, stripped of name, culture and natural identity; made to slog like two-legged mules in a land far, far away; for missionary masters who ****** black men in public for dissent, and threw black babies, naked, screaming, into giant, snapping jaws of bull gators for fun.

Donnie, who inspired me to explore the theory of applied nothingness; that nothing is something and everything is something and nothing; that nothing is the silence from which a baby’s scream emerges and to which it returns; that singular forces of expansion and compression move the universe to an inevitable state of oneness. That the world is the laboratory of the independent thinker who knows the only constant is change; whose mind is constantly moving and learning new tricks, not stuck in the static biblical paradigm of many interpretations, including that curse of Ham, that seismic slight of hand that shifted and redefined tectonic geopolitical plates of master and slave by race.

Donnie, who knew the moving mass of maggots feasting on my rotting flesh were merely spokes in the cycle of life and death. Who knew heaven was a myth like the devil; that both lived in me, on Earth, a duality that made me love and hate and share and steal that shiny red apple from the Korean grocery store on Utica Avenue, just for the thrill of it. Nonetheless, a part of me wanted to confess, just in case that nothingness theory was just applied ******* and John 3:16 was real. Just in case, mother, who prayed five times a day, and sent four-figure checks to Benny Hinn whom she’d never met, and gave me a black bible to help me find the Lord, was right all along. But a few Berettas and bump stocks intervened.

Donnie knew I was dead when the bullet split my head in two back in 2032 at Times Square. There would be no 2033; no ‘Happy New Year’ toast, no kisses, no cheer. Just rat-a-tat-tat, screams and mayhem on 42 Street. There were 175 dead at the scene when the giant ball completed its 60-second drop; New York City’s second worst mass killing in modern history. Children missing limbs; gaping holes in the chest of men that held beating hearts at 11:58 pm; chunks of brains, eyeballs and other human remains swimming in blood near headless victims. The three white terrorists did not discriminate. Every race felt the deadly force of guns meant for war but fiercely defended by Second Amendment zealots and the NRA.

I should have migrated to Tokyo back in ’85.

Donnie disagreed. She’d stayed connected to my departed, restless soul in the after-life. Together, we observed the protracted decomposition of my earthly shell in a loosely-sealed casket somewhere under the red clays of Georgia. Donnie, who knew I needed therapy after that morbidly brutal exit from the physical realm of palpable matter; back to the golden eternity of nothingness from whence I came. Who reminded me that my brief sojourn among the living was not inconsequential; that I’d left an indelible mark in my sphere of influence, real and virtual; that I’d found and used my gift of write for the greater good of preserving naked truths of humanity; that my ancestors were pleased, including my deceased mother, whose long position on pious options had filled the coffers of Benny Hinn and other preaching predators like pastor Mike at the Bootleg Church of Brooklyn; yet yielded nothing which is something as hitherto explained.

“Your mortal life unfolded exactly as nature intended,” Donnie counseled, in her infinite wisdom, adding, “even the biologically immortal pine will die when struck by lightning or swept by a tsunami or snapped like a toothpick by a giant tornado.”

“And those pines produce oxygen to support life on the red clays of Georgia, now uniformly enriched by your final contribution to the world.”
Experimental piece; post-mortem stream of consciousness.
Parker Mar 2018
It started with a single voice
Telling him to jump off the roof
Now, his head is full of voices
and as far as I know, they are all cruel

It started with a single voice
Now, one of them has replicated me
Convincing him that I have wronged him
Giving no power to my actual voice

It started with a single voice
Now, he believes everyone attempts to **** him
That the world is conspiring against him
That his thoughts have the power to take lives

It started with a single voice
Now, he sleeps in a locked monitored room
Drugged up with anti psychotics
Angry and confused
Over the last year and a half I watched as schizophrenia consumed everything my little brother had going for him, Causing him more mental suffering then I have ever see anyone experience. Watching the pain of his condition ******* my family and his future has left me at odds with my own journey. Just a for warning, my brothers predisposition was ignited by him trying lsd. You never know how much you cherish your loved ones being of sound mind until they're gone.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
let's call this busy-body James Joyce, given: pages 15 - 81, and the dates 1969 through to 1981 and the locations - Athens, Methymna, Los Angeles, Austin - then let's call in the plumber and see what the problem was.

S.M.P.E. - *Sulmo mihi partria est
- Sulmo, my homeland,
variant of S.P.Q.R. - spare person quartered reason,
and the sum of its parts - more or less...
is there a valid point to mention the relationship
between the Paeligni and the Republic? none, what-soever,
but we're buying time, so might as well;
and do i have any gratitude akin to the expression
quidquid hoc libelli, qualecumque? probably not -
let's go for a miracle, or charlatanism for a while,
December, Austin, Texas 1981 - and Dr. Preston
simply said of Ovid: contrary to what you may read
somewhere else, he's so human he tears you apart,
he's immensely creative, he's far more complex,
far wider in vision and tougher than most people think.
aye aye in the House of Commons, including the S.N.P.,
it had to happen one time or another, a wee ***-for-tattle.
Ovid suffered in the 18th but not the 19th century,
whatever movement was in the years 17-, default by
association - others would call it a cousin ******* a cousin -
or the "probably" of 18 b.c., Augustus passes the first
stage of the legislation and reform lex iulia de maritandis
ordinibus
and the lex iulia de adulteriis coercendis,
while all the senators are told to wear fishnet leggings
under the togas, to prove the smooth arrangement of
a change in political whiffs of mustard from the *** air:
pungent, really pungent stuff - disperses a crowd like
a bucking donkey on steroids and lysergic acid -
overload of heaven (carrots) and hell (sticks) in a timed
framework of strobe lighting - pray for the animal,
but not the senators. these days bachelors are favoured,
prenups are all the rage - obviously the intricacies of
Roman governing outlived itself in England - Nero and
whoever else were adopted - adoption was big back then,
no harem, just... well... "innocent" little harems in Versailles,
the joy of lying, that too died a little bit, gangrene lips
kissed it and a reality checked in under the pseudonym
reality, or was it rat-cages-rattled? i'm not sure,
you have to ask the porter - starboard me shimmy
and timber... a few apologias later we see the mascara drip
from Pont de l'Alma and Charlie Chaplin on the drums
singing: Harry and Will, your mamma will not be seen
*******, better dead than red, yoddelay yoddelay yo.
well, if you want to instil Louis XIV boudoir ambitions,
the mamma has to go, with the cheap Rolex guy from
Knightsbridge - what a tacky place, you can just imagine
walking through it eating tacos. via: by the way,
alcohol is twice as potent and 100x more enjoyable in
terms of sedation than anti-psychotics, and D was on them -
sadism is a kaleidoscopic venture, you never know when
the pusher will come, yep, the pharmaceutical pusher,
gets orders like any dumbo on the street corner from
the mafia and the Vietnam kids minding the business
in a semi-detached loft - pushers everywhere, even if
in "theory" they want to distance themselves from Big Pharma,
it's the circle of life - otherwise we'd have thomas more's vision,
i'd drop the -e, and add an extra -r. Ovid: back when
writing poetry was deemed anti-social - you could write that,
it's not the Homeric standard of adventure and heroism
and bad denture - back when writing poetry was deemed
anti-social - good enough for the internet to pop up,
yesterday i was talking to a U.P.S. a.i. - and she understood
by stressed elocution - next, more, next, more, repeat,
face-to-face time also a big downer, old school face to face -
people need pixel fencing - pixel fencing is the way to go -
there's one behind those fly eyes - also pixel - just cover
your eyes with a t-shirt and stretch it - fly eyes -
but now from the man herself -
transmute the *** of your lover whenever you mention
him: write 'her' instead
(book 3)... wait a minute,
isn't that a shorter version of what's cited in the Gospel
of St. Thomas? when you make the two one,
and when you make the inner as the outer... you
make the male and female into a single one...

to be honest... if these guys are implying what i think
they're implying, i'd rather do a Jonah - and then turn
around and say: tell that to the mandrakes!
Cate Jun 2015
I suppose
This is what ****** addicts
And psychotics feel like.
White walls
And overflowing ash trays, long
Drags and sloppy kisses
Open shirts and
Undone belts;
Their eighteenth year spinning
Records of commentary
Nostalgia before you got sick from
The speed
Uninteresting to everyone else
Inescapable to you.
Slaughtered morals
***** socks on the sidewalk
If something honest
Inside me could talk I'd say
I never want to feel another questioning palm again against my prickled skin.
Ten days until escape?
Or is it back to the cage?
Who's to say.

C.e.M. 6. 9. 15
Idk super rough
PerfectTruths Nov 2014
We worry about our thoughts,
The way we talk, the way we walk.
We are too easily embarrassed by the little "fails" we make each day.
When he only thinks they are funny, creating a lighter way,
to look at things, on the brighter side, you feel a little better,
about yourself, your flaw, all written in a love letter.
I like to write, it shared my emotions, Using metaphors,
and other figurative devices, techniques that are used as emotional cures.
You ever wonder if what you're saying is right,
or things you bring up, might give the poor boy a fright.
When really, he didn't say anything to bring that thought across,
just you assuming, by his ok, so you toss,
you toss your heart out to him even more, convinced you're a ******.
He LOVES you, you want to deny it, you don't feel you deserved to be love. R.I.L... not a typo.
R.I.L , rest in love, for in love you are truly never rested enough, insatiable hunger and thirst for more,
either to give or receive, you want to make sure he's sure, that you're sure.
but surely one day, it shall rest, for true love, is behind the blinds, hidden in a corner, beware,
beware of the emotional damaged, the psychotics, the stalkers, the late night talkers, the clingers, the criers, the touchy, the huggers, the takers, the jealous, the moody, the miserable, the laughers, the lifetime movie watchers, the imaginations, the achy ones, the ones with the weird fetish.
For behind the wet paint sign, if you choose to ignore a warning,
you most likely will slip and fall, fall in love.
It is not something you can comprehend so quickly, but takes time to digest,
through our heart and pumped out again, by one of those weird symptoms mentioned above.
Well all you got to do is relax, truly sleep, kick back and relax,
let the mind sore and let your inner chi ride roller-coasters,
let it come back, lets wake up and sing,
shrugs her shoulder it's girl thing.
Chris Peers May 2017
Men with guns have always come from some poor mothers womb,
they were innocent kids who once played happily in their yards,
with no aspirations and yet to be tarnished by the world,
learning an obfuscated version of truth in the classroom.

Leaders of men are born out of society's frustration,
innocent boys can become greedy and power crazed men,
fulfilling the naive and unthinking of their desire to be governed,
carrying on with their heedless lives with a strange infatuation.

Killers in our streets and in countries they've never heard of,
innocence becomes tainted and men become idealists,
radicalized and propagandized by political media and religious authority,
killers killing men, women and children, they know nothing of universal love.

Men putting on costumes and killing people who are different,
blindly following orders and fighting for freedom and democracy,
massive bombs in the desert, people blown apart at a million dollars a head,
soldiers on the ground who can barely pay the rent.

Democracy and freedom mere buzzwords of selfish and ignorant patriots,
with many being intolerant, xenophobic and racist proudly waving a national flag,
and two faced Christians preaching love on Sunday and glorifying in death on Monday,
agent provocateurs infiltrate peaceful demonstrations, turning them into law breaking riots.  

Suits in congress and the White House determining lives and futures,
safe in their ivory towers and positions of imagined power,
we should put these policy makers on the front line and watch them cower,
and there's cowards in uniform who ****** and slaughter from behind computers.

The men behind the curtain orchestrate their agenda thru their chosen leader,
puppet masters and policy makers free from liability and accountability,
narcissists and psychotics giving a voice from the unelected and unseen,
the hoi polloi are regarded as expendable and merely unnecessary breeders.

Every ten years or so, a new boogeyman comes out to scare,
leaders of the governed make promises to keep them safe,
slowly eroding rights and tightening up national borders,
spending trillions on warfare and hardly a dime on welfare.

True terror is understanding what this world is all about,
innocent eyes only see the superficial beauty of this world,
while experienced eyes see the ugliness that is within,
all around the world people are screaming to be let out.

Self serving leaders look to expand their temporary empires of artificial riches,
utilizing its armed to the teeth military to ****** unarmed innocents abroad,
destroying histories and cultures and replacing them with expanding organisations,
replacing middle eastern infrastructures with emphasis on profit using slave *******.

The people police themselves and have become willing citizens of self induced manipulation,
there's a kind of mass Stockholm Syndrome of the patriotic citizens of so called free countries,
defending their leaders selfish decisions while wanting a share of the spoils of war,
the founding fathers must be turning in their graves as selfish greed has withered a once great nation.

Children made orphans and mothers made widows by far off decisions,
the enlightened ones break it down and see it as people killing people,
a general or a warlord has got to be king of his small patch of grass,
while the apathetic watch the carnage safely in front of their televisions.

We now live in a society that openly assails the critical and free minded intellectual,
people hiding behind their comforting lies and crying like a baby over inconvenient truths,
political correctness and the nanny state providing a *** to suckle saying you're safe with us,
while the millennials despise being labeled or judged and to be recognized as asexual.

The world is divided by nefarious political parties promoting freedom and choice,
setting up media outlets to emphasize their disapproval of the opposing parties stance,
while behind closed doors of power and influence, they are prostituted bedfellows,
slowly suffocating the rights of the people who still believe they have a voice.

Political and religious words echo in the minds of the patriotic and faithful,
empty promises made with a smile that satiate and calm the masses,
the wise and the skeptical see thru disingenuous rhetoric with clarity,
watching them on soap boxes and pulpits, they should be shameful.
kayla Jan 2018
over a year
of waiting for the agony to takes its course
the pacing in my room at two in the morning
quick breaths toppling each other, never to catch up to my lungs
i never got the chance to unknot—
to replant my roots into someone new
or into different floorboards
yet i was too restless to flourish
into what i assumed was supposed to be my "awakening"
but see, my nerves were too messy and tangled
and i was impatient
so i let the wires undo themselves
or should i say waited—
because it never happened
so more and more nerves connected and collided
creating a construction of clumsiness and clustered words
isolation was becoming me
and i was becoming isolation.

from sitting in my room for far too long,
i have cuts on my hands and scars on my mind
too many anti-psychotics and psychedelics
soon enough, i was melting into my office chair
with sorrow sitting next to me, patting my back
leaving burn marks on my upper right shoulder—
they still ache time to time
and if i was really up there,
my heart would talk to me about the agony
and how it's always picking pieces from my ribs and throat
causing me to speak less and think more
but she did say that it was passing,
that i must be patient—
that was seven months ago.

a week after that talk,
i began traveling further passed that state
trying to talk to agony itself
i was so out of it
my bones weren't bones
and my feet were tingling,
but i had to keep traveling.
i was tired of waiting;
i couldn't keep up with the pacing
i was growing weak
and i just wanted a break
but, i never got to him,
and i never got that break.

and that's why i have bags under my eyes
because the sadness ran out of places to hide so
it hid under the deprivation—
agony was coming
but it was just passing through.
this is unfinished, and does this even make sense?
Patrick Kennon Sep 2016
*****
Mood stabilizers
Anti-psychotics
Xanax
Silence never felt to heavy

Just don't stop coward
Write what's in your heart
Like a doe leaping over fences
Entrails, somehow it fits
Snow on the lawn in Texas
A ****** salt nose dripping on lips
A first kiss in a creek surrounded by mule deer

Two spaces between each empty place
How do they get their names on
The **** bottle

Sitting on Orchard road, in front of the towers
Waiting for a friend or two
The six pack turning warm in its plastic bag
Taking sips under an umbrella in the rain
Espresso and Guinness
**** me for trying
Thoughts of suicide, during psychosis, are physiological manifestations of vitamin-deficit maladies. Happy sentiments about love mean nothing. Beriberi (the vitamin B1 deficiency) fosters melancholia. Pellagra (the vitamin B3 deficiency) fosters melancholia. People contemplating self-****** should be put on B1 & B3. Their blood sugar should be checked, as well as thyroid function.

— The End —