"schizophrenics" poems
Doctor after doctor says
"How are you feeling?'
Watch schizophrenics go to the quiet room
Where they don't hear the voices
I shouldn't be here
I'm not that crazy
You try not to say out loud
Then again your mind
Becomes rational
For just a split second
And my mind goes
"You need to be here"
When you realize
You cut your emotions skin deep
Purge up all my sanity
And starve away all the names
I suddenly realize
That i belong here
In a mental ward
ED is silent he re
I like this place
He has no control over me
Here
Skin and bones
Hunger is a lovely feeling
Messed up i know
This is what i crave
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
the cold, white building has been abandoned for seven years today.
what was once a majestic foundation for the analysis of a humanity, now an empty fable of
gargantuan men in
laboratory suits
and young women who thirsted to follow in the footsteps of the
honorable Florence.
The sanguine fluids left from the yesterdays and the yesterdays seep and transude into the
holy grounds of the asylum.
no man, no beast dares to disturb the forsaken soil,
the venerable clay loam out of which grows the neverending carnage of body and flesh.
lost voices of a
thousand schizophrenics
still scream
from the silent operations of their euthanasia.
the lands have not lied under the unadulterated, pure heavens since the genesis of
H. sapiens himself. This “wise, knowing man” has
doused and suffocated
the flame that radiated prospect, leaving the wide, exquisite cosmos
no more than a nefarious expanse of chaos and dismay.
The structure, the edifice of what was intended for
knowledge and bounty,
has indeed fallen
victim
to the inauspicious prophecy that they molded and sculpted themselves.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
The homeless schizophrenic if the future of society.
He is begging for change and yet having no sense.
Relying on the egos of the thick-wallet mirages,
never not knowing how rich he could've been.
He'll hop on the train headed east to the city,
not ever once minding be it fast or be it slow.
Knowing the fact that it'll be just as ******
Content to just feel that hot wind blow.
We are all homeless schizophrenics in training,
Waiting to turn blue, eternally resting,
When our day comes, there will be no second-guessing
Its been a long time coming.
The end of our quest.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:37 AM UTC
She is "The Monarch" of her own little world
Makeup applied and drowning in pearls
She walks down the halls of a house long abandoned
Regret stays beside her, her only companion
Memories play out like an opera before her
She went for the gold but ended up poorer
One foot is forced in front of the other
Each step an echo of lost sisters and brothers
To protect what matters a wall must be built
Brick upon brick, fear stacked with guilt
Exit the house, exit the dream
Enter a reality of conflicting schemes
Lucky for her she's loaded with downers
Schizophrenics grab both above and below counters
Trembling fingers clutch at the rim
Of a toilet containing this girl's ****** sin
She drowns her pain in colors of joy
Pinks, yellows, purples, to her mouth they deploy
These soldiers are saviors, without them she's dead
It's getting more common, the scream in her head
She tried to fight back but her will was too frail
The going got tough and everyone bailed
But what happens to the general that loses an army
"Perhaps ask the girl that's apparently self harming
For she is a veteran of wars never won
Invisible scars from invisible guns"
Call for a truce, wave the white flag
Nobody sees that the Queen's wearing rags
Somebody save her because God is long gone
She may not be breathing, flame extinguished come dawn
Her enemies draw near, they sense she's grown tired
Dragged not just through mud but also through briars
She can't ask for help with a lock on her lips
Ropes around ankles and chains around wrists
In a life filled with ultimatums, lies and distrust
Ashes are more than just ashes, dust more than just dust
The air becomes pain, each inhale near torture
Her Highness doesn't chase the things that can scorch her
So back into the dream, back into the house
Never the lion but always the mouse
Clean up the pearls and apply more concealer
Confirm the next order with the local drug dealer
A wilted rose with all its petals furled
I am "The Monarch," this is my world.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 12:27 AM UTC
Torn by societal views of right and wrong
The voices that once spoke to me are nothing but a long droning sound
Schizophrenics on a city bus screaming about being kidnaped and ***** and abandoned
Mad men on the street banging on a mirror
Yelling **** You!" only to say it to themselves
And self loathing isn't specific to the mentally ill
Or maybe it is
Perhaps we're all mental
Scars of teenagers disguised with bracelets
Bruises covered in foundation
Violence and danger and pain
Self inflicted
Glass glided against gentle skin
Blood oozing out
Only to produce a temporary high on endorphins
But still
A man banging on a mirror
"I hate you" he screams
"I hate you!"
Do we all hate ourselves
And resort to different means of coping
Risky ***
8 tabs of acid
a 27 hour trip
Terrified in spirals of rainbows and skeletons
Angrily playing the piano
Producing music that may as well be spun gold
Mozart's Sonata No.12 in F Major
Perfection
Not out of willingness
Out of angriness
Self expression
Expression from pain
We stare at violent images in museums and accept them as art
Maybe they're really a cry for help
Maybe the piece is meant to say "Help me, I'm dying in my mind."
But we are too ignorant and blind and we think its imagination
And it's really reality
Prozac Nation was not made for consumption
Nor for profit
Because I can assure you that millions of people are changed by that book
And it's not like Twilight or Harry Potter
It's more
It's the honest truth
What everyone thinks they are but aren't
The poem you're reading right now
May be the cry for help I speak of
The issue however remains
A close minded society that doesn't want to accept the fact that so many of us are suffering
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
and the whisper clapped.
the whisper clapped to
dawns arrival.
the whisper clapped
to dusks departure.
the whisper clapped
to the arrival of sound
waves laughing like angry
distances in mad consort,
as if schizophrenics heard
words spoken millions of
years ago on far off planets
long since devoured by
exploding supernovas,
the sound waves only
reaching us now in the
same way we see ancient
stars, long since having
devoured the speaking
races in the inevitable
movement of cosmic
breath.
and the whisper wondered;
what was the last word
spoken by
God?
you wouldn't know.
Every Testament was
heard and written by a
solitary schizophrenic
of long past, seen as
holy mystics speaking
the language of heaven.
Now these mystics are
madmen shooting ******
in rainy, grey alleyways.
God died long ago and his
last whisper was heard
within the confines of a
mental asylum just outside
of São Paulo, Brazil. We
weren't paying attention.
We missed the Last
Testament.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
Shamans
Psychics
Schizophrenics
Mystics
Medics
Psychoanalysts
Politicians
Hypocrites
It’s in your head
It’s out of mind
It’s before our eyes
but most are blind
Buy Dark
Deal Light
Write left
Felt right
Free consciousness
from the physical fight
to dominate
through fear and hate
Religion and government
feed from the same plate
Inquisitions
Constitutions
Impositions
Insoluble solutions
in poisonous bruise
Drip-fed
in 24hr news
Brain dead
Twisted views
Controlling hands
that turn the screws.
© Verso-(David Moule) 06/03/08
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
I fill the place of the inconceivable super babe,
While she takes her time to grace
Your life with her precious existence,
As she is too busy being elsewhere currently.
She lurks in the future, as perfect as she is,
She can't seem to trespass the bearings of time.
Well that's just awful, I say as we sit on the bus seat,
me where she otherwise would be.
Some person
who may not even exist
Takes priority over me.
If I didn't practice empathy so well,
I would run around your life
Like a kid in a candy shop,
Unsupervised,
And steal everything of yours that I could.
Every memory would be mine, every first
Every last, shoved into my socks my boots
My coat pockets my hat.
I wish sympathy wasn't my speciality
Otherwise I'd say quit wasting my time,
I know what you're doing because
I would do it too.
I wish I wasn't selfish,
Because the poison I keep in keeping you,
Has found it's way into my coffee finally.
If I really loved you, If I had the courage to,
I'd let you go.
I wish I wasn't so afraid, otherwise I'd dispose of you
As you once will with me.
But these bindings you've built with your grace, and charm
And you're so handsome, keep me here, on this bus,
Next to you,
In place
Of someone inconceivable.
Remember when I told you
That I liked you because you made me feel
Inadequate instead of complete?
And you said
If it ever gets to be a bad feeling of inadequacy
Let me know, because it shouldn't be that way.
It is that way,
When the importance of someone who you have
Yet to have met, trumps the simple existence of me.
Especially when I am not the girl yet to exist.
I'd rather talk about schizophrenics on fire,
Or even be a flaming schizophrenic,
Than continue on with this conversation.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” when Jesus stood on trial,
Bearing witness of the Truth to all who heard His voice.
Though philosophy rejected it, stood in denial,
Still, the Way, the Truth, the Life allowed mankind its choice.
“What is truth?” though, sounds urbane, superior to law.
Hermeneutics of humility smooths out the field.
I seem more sophisticated, cultured, not bourgeois,
If it’s all a mystery, still hidden, unrevealed.
So I claim, “There are no absolutes; it’s relative,”
Disregarding that my statement’s antithetical.
My assertion controverts itself (though tentative),
By proclaiming proclamations “theoretical.”
Next I try, “Who really knows what truth is, after all?”
All my friends agree with me; they wisely nod, concur.
Confident in doubt, with inconsistency banal,
Logic cast aside, to diametrics they demur.
How about “There is no right or wrong; it’s in your head!”
Satisfying concept until I’m the one abused.
Then my default is to judge the wrongdoer instead,
Never asking, “Why impose my ‘truth’ on the accused?”
“Well,” I claim, “I make my own reality; it’s true.”
If you counter me on that, I’ll argue all the way.
Think about it, though, because just how can I undo
True belief with skepticism; how will doubt have sway ?
Really, if I don’t have Truth, I don’t have anything.
Two plus two must equal four, or all the rest is void.
If we have no premise to employ linguistic string,
Then our discourse has no point; we’re barely humanoid.
Truth’s the binding to our book, the glue that holds secure
Logic, Reason, plain Consistency, our common ground,
Making possible each conversation to be sure,
Infrastructure of our culture, verity profound.
Then . . .
Let the relativist hush, he has no argument.
Making absolutist claims without the Truth is mad.
Only schizophrenics would attempt to circumvent
Rationale with their subjective unbelieving fad.
Maybe Truth’s “behind the times,” unstylish, square, uncool,
Maybe if I cling to it they’ll call me “Simpleton.”
All I know is Truth, derided, under ridicule
Still is True, and I’ll be its “minority of one.”
Yes, I’ll make that choice to speak the Truth against the tide.
Orwell’s “revolutionary act,” though I’m alone,
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” and history replied, . . . that
Truth, though spurned, remains civilization’s Cornerstone.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Who is to define crazyness?
Or being mad?
Being sane? Insane?
Who?
Not you, not me, not anyone!
Would you like to know why?
Because my description of crazy or being mad or sane or insane is completely different to what your description is.
So when people call schizos crazy, it ****** me off.
Schizos are not crazy,
Maybe they just see things that are actually there.
You can call me crazy, call me mad, call me sane or call me insane.
Just think about it, maybe they see the things we cant see,
Because we could be the crazy ones who cant see what they see.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
*it's like they're feeding themselves the line: things i should have said / thought about / cared about... me? bring on the woodwinds and saxes and violins... like the other day, they really wanted to make the classical music scene pretty by enforcing a weird post-colonial theory of how composers and musicians should be black once in the while, i dig that the japanese just love chopin, but come on: john coltrane, sonny clark, miles davis, cannonball adderley? who the hell wants it to look pretty, like a half-wit beauty of a woman: i want it mandible, not porcelain... next thing you'll be telling me is that a donkey can moo... jazz is an impromptu get-together, it's not an impromptu scribble scribble scribble readying a bunch of ponce ******** to sit it out stiff in a grand music hall - when i went to see swan lake by tchaikovsky the crowd clapped so frequently without a clear moment of aspiration to feel the music... plus i think ballet ruins the music, all that stomping, it's not an art-form, but an encircling stampede: plus i think it's also a sadism; rumba cha cha cha mambo cha cha cha tango cha cha cha foxtrot cha cha cha.*
after qualifying to be listening
to b.b.c. radio 4, after all the ponce
of classic f.m., i find that
people listening to radio 4
are craving a schizophrenic simulation,
they're the ones who never
cried listening to a piece of music,
they want company...
honest to god, schizophrenics (ego shrapnel)
complain about the symptom of
"hearing" voices (yes, the sense needs
ambiguity)... while those on
the b.b.c. radio 4 diet always want
company, they're not prone to liking
thinking... the world's weirdest simulator;
i'll admit it, even the cheesiest pop
music makes me feel like candy floss
in comparison to middle-age depth of talk.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
you would never say about a Kandinsky: where's
the Mondrian?
luckily we have enough information
about Goldberg's sardines,
without asking another poet (other than O'Hara)
to sniff out Billingsgate - and so too:
if Burroughs said: all writing limps behind painting
by 50 years - enough said,
hence came speedy Gonzales
with his shotgun and his canned paint...
and i know just as much as sardines in
see-through tins -
well: it was worth a joke,
someone was bound to **** into a champagne
bottle at some point, and celebrate:
in abstract - or to the point:
in concreto - ecce artifex!
at least enough
humility would be worth the same dosage -
specialisations are such:
demanding concepts as aboriginal
in anthropology -
likewise anthropological:
schizophrenics in urbanity - after all...
a concrete jungle - like any half-wit
and butt-naked in the Amazon...
applause for
comrade Gagarin and Laika -
and if Darwin wrote in
cyrilica - then it too would have been
Mohawk and Brain - salutations and applause -
and if ever in doubt:
call it versailles - to denote all forms of
luxury -
i know: versailles better hides luxury
than the hermitage -
or as King Duck could say
being a burden on the Vavel Mount -
even the Vavellian
dragon died from laughter, even though
he was given a sheep stuffed with sulphur -
and drank the Vistulla dry...
but only when King Quack was laid to rest:
and the volk - the naród said:
Katyń 1 - Smoleńsk 3...
and there was even
a composition by wojciech kilar.
so then... 50 years lagging?
disorientating? muddled, spaghetti loops?
well, as the introduction already mentions,
painters can't write - suddenly everything
has to have geometry!
any geometrical instrument
in an art's class is seen like a Sunni in Iran -
or a Buddhist, at a Bar Mitzvah:
boom-town slap-head -
choppy waters, brightly illuminated
by the polished
cranium sheen.
so why except a Mondrain from a Kandinsky
?!
what a brain-drain!
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
We are viewed as children,
treated like violent schizophrenics,
and expected to act more mature than adults.
We are told we are ok
just the way we are
and that what we feel is wrong.
We can’t escape adults,
we can’t escape each other,
and we can’t escape ourselves.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
I'm going to run tonight.
After the sun is down, the moon
has dipped into the starry sky's darkness
and the weekend fire pits are dancing with my shadow.
I'm going to breathe tonight,
deeply of the budding greens and mulching blacks
until my nostrils are painted with earth. I'll let the sprinklers
drench every inch of my body until
I can flick the water from my hair
and all the world soaks through my chest
so my heart can beat against it.
I'm going to howl tonight,
from the very bottom of my breast with a smile on my face
legs never stopping to catch the air my lungs are surely missing
because tonight, the little boy, the lover, the beast—
tonight— they are the poet.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 5:19 PM UTC
christianity is, in part,
ontologically based, to behave like
hinduism...
in that its root is a polytheism,
focusing on
the opposite of a theology,
or its particularness...
it's poly-schismatic.
catholicism can lie all it wants away,
but the fact is simple:
christianity was based upon a focus
of an impeding schism...
so i can't see a way out of
shouting: shotgun!
as you rarely do, take the seat
in a non-black-cabbie next to the driver...
since there isn't one...
add to it an innumerable
cohort of saints... and you're done...
at least islam is "schizophrenic",
in that the schism took to representing
two factions of belief systems...
me? if i were muslim?
shi'a(h) islam... all the way...
christianity just has a messiah complex
imbedded in it... and therefore it has
so many splinters (schisms) waiting for it,
to be reduced to.
orthodox, catholic, protestant,
and then all the -isms...
luthernism, calvinism, baptism -ism- -ists...
em, second day adventists?
it's like darwinism in a theological sense:
look! look at all the theo-diversity!
only now, would you associate
the (g)nostic movement in islam (sufism)
with shi'a(h) islam...
but come on! how can you make poetry
a capitalist "thing"?
you can't compete when writing poetry...
you can't compete on an universal basis for
a uniform stance of "incompetent" expression...
that **** ain't happening...
i feel with my intensity, and with my intensity alone...
you can't compete with what you feel,
and then scribble down...
the **** is this "comprehension" / realisation?
poetry is not some potato-sack / egg on a spoon race!
in terms of language...
english has already won the culture war...
but chinese, or hindi, as written in sanskrit?
well... that's won the existential war...
a billion here... and a billion over there...
mind you, i'll repeat myself...
the polytheistic aspect of christianity is that
christianity has a tendency to agitate schisms;
it's really a religion of the obelus (÷),
or as some might suggest: the obelisk of washington d.c.
thank **** it wasn't a giant **** of
masonry, with only one / two rooms in it.
the ****** religion just implodes,
and schizophrenics itself into a poly-diadem
that then tries to resolve some primitive geometric
form (square, triangle, a straight line, a dot)
of "respectability";
but reducing the tetragrammaton (yhwh) into a
dangling piece of metal, i.e. a † (crux)?
that! that's truly barbaric!
May 20, 2017
May 20, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
Descendent of bloods lines full of blood and lust
She came into this world covered in a sinful crust
Big bushy eyebrows
All as one
Sat above her eyeballs disturbing everyone
She had a turnip shaped body
A head like a lolly
She looked like she had been divorced
By the corpse of Mr Blobby
A foul being of unfathomable filth
She made the Scottish-men wear tights with their kilts
An unimaginable scene even in a schizophrenics dream
She made the red light district look like the blue peter team
They tried to make her into a play but they stopped in between
The directors head was found in a shed
With a note saying "die or agree"
Rumours has it
Her foul being is not just a habit
She even gets her way walking into on coming traffic
No there's no time for hesitation
when she's fulfilling her vocation
Moving from border to border disturbing more order then mortars
Never turns around always forward
Driven by bloodline that's distorted
Yet their are whispers on the wind
That she's found a certain him
An Arabic King who left his land looking for better things
He said "oil and camels - I'm soaked in the stuff,
Can you show me a good time,
Can you really make me huff?"
She ordered a weekend in Wales
No ******** no garlic snails
Hard bed no straw
In the eyes of an on looker
He had pulled the last straw
He found what he didn't know he wanted
A high powered back door motor
A great slice of westernised ****
Far from the Middle Eastern cuisine he had depart
So
As you can see and as I will say
Good things come to those who also don't prey
From inside of your skin
To the outer space rim
Unlikely loves *** and begin
Squirm and mesh
Challenges they possess
But what would be love
If we had no mess
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
We don’t own as much as we used to; some of us wonder if we ever will again. Feeling bewildered and helpless is the new normal. We wait and watch, as all those clumsy, stubborn, beautiful ideas withering away on the vine; day in, day out. We all just want it to end, and soon.
A murmur. A rumbling. It’s moments like these where anything is possible. Hope lies, waiting, even in these days of utter and complete denial.
So, we’re calling an end to this “State of Affairs”. We’re calling an end to fear and paranoia and self-intimidation. We sick of those sitting in the chairs, watching the world spin, as if things weren’t happening. We’re done waiting.
We’d like to dedicate this to the desperate and the forgotten and the broken. This for the waitresses, the junkies, and the carpenters. The secretaries and schizophrenics and alcoholics. Those living behind enemy lines. Those who bring the war home with them. This isn’t for company men; men with families and a health-plan and a hybrid car they just “can’t risk losing”. You can’t trust a man whose welfare is just another cog, embedded into the belly of that same horrible machinery. No such man has ever lost himself in revolution. It just isn’t done.
This is for the memory of an empire, created and destroyed. Its base was built on traditions we no longer need, and values we no longer possess.
This is about those who’ve abandoned thoughts of hope and love, thoughts they so justly deserve.
Despite all this, the future remains the same as it ever was. Bleak, uncertain, magnificent. For all we know, we may be arrested tomorrow.
But we are here, now, so hear me: This is the end of whispered dissidence. This is the death of stagnation and dissonance and all that empty space. Listen close. We’ll not hesitate to sink the ship and **** the Captain.
This is for the hearts who’ve kept beating. Know that we never stopped listening. We're coming, and we're bringing change with us. This is for you. Try to be free. Don’t be afraid. I have seen the future, and I have seen better days. No matter what ‘they’ say, the end of the world will never come.
They stumble in their exaltation, rejoicing. They’ve stolen the crown. Praise be. As if that’s all that ever made a King.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC
this is forwarded to you
no one i know owns anything
and i don't think most people i know ever will
i'm tired of bewilderment and helplessness
i want so many thing to end soon
and i know anything is possible
in moments where everything is denied
but everyday clumsy stubborn beautiful ideas
wither and rot on the vine
i'm tired of this so called state of affairs
i'm calling an end to fear and paranoia and self-intimidation
i'm done watching the world spin, as if nothing is happening at all
i'm done waiting
this is dedicated to waitresses and junkies and carpenters
to secretaries and schizophrenics and alcoholics
to the imminent societal collapse
this is dedicated to girls kissing girls
boys kissing boys
boys kissing girls
and everything that falls in between
the future is as it ever was
uncertain, bleak, beautiful
for all we know, tomorrow they might arrest us all
listen closely to the movements
ascribe adequate weight to dissidents and whisperers
some hearts only keep on beating as long as you keep on listening
try to be free
try not to be afraid
no matter what they say
the end of the world will never come.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
In the end you'll question your beliefs
In the end you'll realize that your faith in god was actually the fear of hell
Everything you did - you did in vain
It was not god behind the rain
I'll be all ears when you walk back into your life
I'll forgive you before you apologize
I'll hit you with all the good you failed to see
But before i begin, I'll walk you to the corners where the sun never reached
The crowd ready to stone the woman accused of adultery
The pyre set for the woman accused of sorcery
Devils inside schizophrenics
A rabbi unclothing a girl to check if she's a ******
Nuns and monks thinking of a world behind silver lines
How many of you have noticed that its golden sometimes??
Babas and Gurus telling tales of their encounter with god
Pastors making up stories to blind the herd
Glue sniffers in every street of this country
Billions spent on religious groups and nothing for the hungry
Its funny how I got blackballed when I said that the way we cremate is wrong
And that's religion polluting this world
European Islamists are not even worth talking about
Sadly we live in the world where Robert Mugabe walks proud
Believe me when i say there's no god for those 6 million non-Zanus
The world has moved on so lets not be talking about Tutsis and Hutus
How many of you have read about the latest genocide?
Buddhists beheading Muslims and children left to die
Need I write more????
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
A schizophrenics ticks were sold at auction
Words collected from toilet stalls across the southwest
The proceeds steal the strut from souls warm in the luxury of existing
A new gold trim for your gods sky strapped in boxes full of free wills final folly
Deconstructing notions of peace absent of preconceived greatness
Keeping company with ghosts...
who insist the sincerest toast..
is the one held above extending loves reminder that hate is just as exhausting
Let us all gather in this time stained hollow for a symphony strung through our malfunction system
What are these ticks...
When the time slips and I find that my life was only a series of sublime distractions
reality portrayed as an ever elusive interpretation
A fist clenched in the face of fallacy forced from mouths fat with gold tooth gumption
Pocket computer mutes the astute perception needed for sincerity
Contraptions consolidate the wonders for easy consumption
DNA inclined to a nomadic existence snuffed with fluff from talk show syndrome
A strangers blunders broadcasted into all our corners
Mourning the turning of a record full of nostalgia
Control the skulls with pill flavored filling
Like rusted hardware churning an absurd mixture
We all sway to the hum of static hilarity
I've spent some time on the lines between fine and terrified
Detached from the reactions of a stranger collision
Realigned with a crime lacking the savvy for sigh filled predators
If you find sense in the nonsensical then get ready for an existence steady with haphazard jesters rendering satire from social observation
Farewell to the freak that speaks reason inside a plastic world
A lack of gods for complicating compelled a mind to attempt liberation
horizons painted on signs indicating fines for existing
duck and cover from a feather plucked from a sky strapped wing
I have nothing left and your frustration is not unlike a snail high on amphetamines
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:21 PM UTC
Memories are made of scars
Woven into tapestries
Laid out in the darkest halls
Where schizophrenics roam
Voices sing of long-lost stars
Unique in their divinities
Written on the bathroom walls
Of rest stops long disowned
Twilight shines through broken panes
The hourglass remains the same
Forever on its side
Though time goes creeping on and on
There are no truths within a name
With violence breeding out the sane
Such darkness here resides
It must have been here all along
For the only lights remembered
Are the phantoms of dismay
The only satisfaction
Is it might not be a lie
The final dying embers
Are the fires that fuel decay
A comatose reaction
In a mind that never dies
Such dreams are never ending
Dying hearts cannot be stilled
The poison circulating
Now sustaining waking death
They rise in their descending
As in emptiness they’re filled
More intoxicating
With their every failing breath
On legs that quake and tremble
Come euphoria and pain
Such sweet inoculation
In the cure that is disease
Their bodies now a temple
To the rotting and insane
The grave’s ***********
To the soul upon its knees
Emptiness conscripted
On the question of forever
Eternity’s dark sermon
In the Chapel of Decay
Such madness now inflicted
In the Valley of the Never
Consuming the uncertain
As the lifeless lead the way
These freely bleeding masses
To a pulse remain enslaved
Vainly grasping endlessly
For lives they’ll never own
They sip from tainted glasses
On which failures are engraved
Harvesting so recklessly
The sorrows they disown
Finding false forgiveness
In their Mothers, Sons, and Gods
To ease their guilty consciences
So they can sin again
Blindly bearing witness
To their weakening facade
Giving darkness dominance
In times that soon will end
Forever so unknowing
That their lives are but pretend
So easily they free themselves
From any blame they earn
While every stone they’re throwing
Will betray them in the end
They’ll find that they themselves
All feed the fires in which they burn
While Death is biding time
From His throne He needn’t move
With the blind leading the blind
In the place where liars rule
How they suffer so sublime
Each one trying so to prove
They the only King to find
In this ****** Land of Fools
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
last year i used onion fashion
to drink a few beers walking:
tanktop, t-shirt, shirt, a zipped-up
hoodie, a winter jacket...
this year i'm walking with just
a t-shirt, an unzipped hoodie
and a thin army jacket...
in the winter where spring blossoms
(white and pink) were blossoming
throughout the season, and the daffodils
sprouted in january.
2nd topic... the noun schizophrenia isn't
even medical these days...
it's solely political... most schizophrenics
are very creative, most dementia sufferers aren't...
schizophrenia belongs in the political realm
to shut someone up, it's easier that way...
it's when someone's ***** get cut off
and they don't realise it, because they're living
a very comfortable life and despair at a chance loss...
schizophrenia is a political word comrade stalin
used quiet a lot... it doesn't belong to doctors...
it belongs to politicians and the enemies of journalists...
when you get diagnosed as one
you get ridiculed: your intelligence is questioned
(even by the closest of friends you once had),
and along with everything else...
they find it hard to define insanity... i guess
you'd have to be insane to define it yourself...
come to think of it.. infamy and fame are quiet alike...
blurred lines... you never know what's more entertaining;
you never go mad on your own, other people
drive you to madness... it's not an automated system
of belief like catholicism passed down like a germ
from father to son... because there's no ritual practice...
and without a ritual of intoxication of Dionysian madness
everyone practicing a sober ritual will suddenly loose
the plot... given their deity is intoxicated and everyone
else is only giving a sip of wine, and a crumb
from the table that fed the five thousand:
take your anorexic joint out of here, smoke that ****
yours self... let me get drunk, say hello to your papa.
but here comes batman wearing a tiara... please excuse me.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC