"therapies" poems
I'm made of all;
The books I've ever read
Poems I've ever written
Faces who have smiled at me
Hugs that have wrapped around me
Caresses that have graced my inner thigh
Countries & continents my feet have touched
The lovers as we simultaneously reach ecstasy within
Lonely nights shedding tear drops
Nights gazing black skies moon & stars
Children falling asleep to my heartbeat
Animals whose soul was found through reflective eye stares
Conversations spoken in French, Spanish, Italian, Xhosa, Afrikaans, Norwegian, German
Years of ****** cognitive-, dialectical-, art-, drama-, music-, mindfulness-, trauma-, psychiatry-; therapies
The drinks & drugs & mind altering substances dispersing my mind
In all I'm made of;
Love
Lust
Greed
Fear
Joy
Freedom
Longing
Dreams
Despair
Sadness
Anger
Frustrations
Happiness
Anxieties
Insecurities....
In all I'm made of;
A soul; securely contained within a body of battled scars;
over;
pain & triumphs, losses & gains, rejections & acceptances, dishonours & accolades...
With the hope; she too, can live life through.
© Sia Jane
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Box fitted vans moving on the prowl.
Waiting for these kids in an easy take
Preteen gangster violence,
With your lovely daughter playing jail bait.
We're all thievish wolves,
All hungry for more, we're hungry for more.
So please tell me that this is under control.
As our sons sniffing the product you were forced to recall.
Please tell me that this is under control
while your misses is prostituting just to feel at home.
Please tell me that this is under control
While my darling little princess is lying tagged by the toe.
Our therapies are burning and our do hearts do swell,
Which has got us in love with these feelings, that we've never felt.
And I'll take these violent words as nothing more then a test.
Try to feed me please for this is nothing more then a crimson mess.
This nuclear family
Is decaying
Right in front of me,
Right in front of me.
Covered by the trace in the hallow moonlight, pack of wolves at our back.
Some one calls out in silence, are fresh killers what we lack?
We're ragged fools, just fear in the fold only to feel at home.
Our therapies are burning as our do hearts do swell,
Which has got us in love with these feelings, that we've never felt.
And I'll take this fermented world, right off my chest.
Then lead you to the ruins, for the better I digress.
Now forgive me, this is how the story goes.
Feeding in the innocent stripped to the bones.
Please tell me that this is under control
While your misses is prostituting just to feel at home.
Please tell me we are under control.
Swinging from the gallows, caught by the throat.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
From a young age I was claiming to see angels, aliens, elementals, sometimes god himself walking in the sun. I remember surprising my teacher at age four by explaining infinity and drawing a figure eight for her.
I'm telling you these things, and other parts of my background because it all just feels necessary, if I'm to have any credibility for rational thought when I somehow find a way to explain what happened in there. It's been almost a week, I'm still jacked in the head. One thought, one memory, one feeling and all I can do is sob.
I digress. My point is that I've always been a highly spiritual person. What started as a Catholic would travel through taoism, Buddhism, the Cherokee and Hopi, the Hindu.. I've learned their Kung Fu, their Asana yoga, their healing through chi. I can say with no ego or shame, I am a shaman.
Christ, coming full circle, now amazes me the most. From that short line, "for through me all things are possible."
It's funny, but it took all that eastern mystic learning for me to come to understand the truly timeless nature of the cross, of God, and of ourselves.
I also, from age fifteen, was frequently hypnotized, and used an array of other advanced tequnique therapies meant to increase sub concsious brain hemisphere communication speeds. Remarkable stuff. From there I taught myself how to meditate and heal, and my colleague and I continued our experiments on into my early thirties.
I'm writing all of this because I want you all to know what I mean when I say "I am extremely in tune with my body and often sense things intuitively."
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
Assertion
Clammed-up
On the relay
Second guessing
The shrunken head
Of old therapies
The clock says
It's time
To nod off
Greet the morn
With withered fist
Rationalised fury
Trying to
Replace the
Pimply face
Of ******
Angst baseless in
Content
On the tether
Of just another
Addiction in a
Succession
Of spiritual
Vices perpetuated
By the nonchalant
Visage of a world
Uncaring
In derision
From calloused hands
Caused by
Hard work
With little or no
Monetary avail
Hand to mouth
Foot in mouth
Hand on crotch
Crotch saddle sore
What's the point
Of a worn-down point
Dull but
Double-edged
Just to prove
The sword of Damocles
Is still hanging
Over the head
Of your enemies
Who pop
Their heads
Up over
The hedgerows
Like pictures
In a shooting gallery
At the carnival of
A battlefield distant
Filled with relics
Of another
Dead-end
Ill-purposed war
Of the worlds floating
On the crest of
Mine-dotted airwaves
Prompting viewers
To drown negativity
And to salvage
The positive
A broadcast from
Bipolar formats
In living colour
Double-edged
Double-standards
Double-dealing
Double-meaning
Double-minded
Double-jeopardy
Double-trouble
Double your money
Doppelganger leading
Double life
All propagated in
Double-time
Best
Double your efforts
And tune out!
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
The walls are caving in
Darkness setting in
Not a single ray of light seeps in
But i like it.
Everyone
Everyone i knew
Everyone i had
Everyone i loved
And still love
Everyone that i gave a piece of me to
turned away
and walked away
with that piece
never looking back.
not even once,
But i like it.
Everyday
I feel as if
I am walking under clouds
That are raining knives
With the knives piercing through me
In every way it could
Just like innocent raindrops.
But i like it.
Each night
I wet my eyes
With my own raindrops
Then i shut them tight
and lock myself away
Repeating the mantra
Don't wake up.
Don't wake up.
Don't wake me up.
But when the morning comes
I will be awake
And my eyes were allowed to be opened.
I have no choice then
I have to get up
And live it away
Bleeding as i walk around
The face of this Earth.
People throwing words at me
as i walk
You need to stop.
You need to get out of this.
Lets find a way together.
But no.
This pain is a drug
That i am addicted to
And no rehab nor therapies
could fix it.
And i
Love it.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
Gasp!
I stutter!
Chest rising, air-hungry...
Again, I sputter!
Efforts to resuscitate
My grappling form
Are all falling in vain
What is this storm?
Hands reaching out
With a desperate yearn for something
I lost, while I was busy
Extracting, gaining, bargaining.
Parched throat
Unmoistened by water
Tremulous heart
Beating feebler, faster.
No antidote works,
No therapies suffice,
Oxygen flows through,
Still I'm devoid of life.
The world dejectedly shakes its head
Everything known to man
Has been done. But
twists of fate, who can understand?
'Cause in a magical instant,
The Hand divine
Rests on my ebbing existence
One more time.
Once again dysrhythmic heart beats
Start dancing in orderly unison.
Breaths start entering-exiting
In perfect, beautiful, natural fashion.
In goes life,
The reason for my being,
In goes truth,
All knowledge, all meaning.
And finally, after the
Evil, cidal, unending eternity,
Out comes a deep, long, fulfilling
Exhalation of Poetry.
Now, alive, I truly am.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
I cannot keep this
This fruitless ache
This pounding in my head
There go my blades
At their works
****** arts!
Sign the dotted line in blood
Your blood!
We try to bleed it out!
each droplet an hour of agonies
crimson muck
We cried but in vain
This depressive, this manic
This open raw wound
to which everyone spits in
For tis that which they doth not see
Oh so blind to!
Therapies, forsooth! a worthless pastime
Clonazepam, Quetiapine
Dampen the mood, quieten the voices
A mind torn asunder
for of winter snow
and summer thunder
a body I do plunder
to rip out these demons
exorcise these ghouls
claw out these ghosts
This cannot be glorified
it is not beautifully broken
but tearing oneself apart
to remove the ashes in my head
Borderline personality disorder
Post traumatic stress disorder...
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
I am not a psychotherapist
But sometimes I think I'm just
******
And I give out therapies
Like I gave him too many tears
I ask all the questions
That no one wants to answer
In hopes that the truth will smack them
Open their eyes wide
Like it did mine
I listen to their answers
Testimonies of their pathetic attempts
To convince themselves of happiness
No one changes unless they want to
And quite frankly
Sometimes it feels good to hate and hurt
To convince ourselves that we're different when really
We're all the same
Tell me why you want to die
And I'll tell you not to
But this circle ends and begins with
You
I cannot save you
I can lend out a hand to your drowning soul
But you must decide to help yourself
And take it
I am not a psychotherapist
But I am a ****** therapist
I'll tell you to save yourself
While I number my days
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Saint Patrick died on March 17th.
So we celebrate the day with green and drink.
Patrick, was kidnapped to Ireland as a slave,
a condition he never fully forgot or forgave.
Patty (as he was known by his friends)
was a sober, relentless, devout Christian.
As a missionary, he gallivanted methodically, converting heathens
and if he failed to convert you, you weren’t left breathin’.
He could burn you at the steak for ignoring ‘reason’.
To show Christ’s power, he ‘banished’ the snakes,
It’s amazing, the difference a miracle can make.
The year 461 pre-dated laptops and even the Internet,
so, I think it’s time we finally forgive and even forget
the sad, sordid history of Catholic conversion “therapies”
because today we need a reason to drink until we’re green.
Mar 16, 2023
Mar 16, 2023 at 10:08 PM UTC
Oh no!
I have just been diagnosed,
With a case of Extreme Stupidity,
My doctor says its probably terminal,
But with advanced methods and invasive procedures,
My chances of survival,
Are, at best, hopeless,
With proper treatment,
And a well-balanced diet,
I should be able to overcome the side-effects of the medication and therapies afforded by the state-run institutions,
And return to a 'normal and happy stupidless life'
There is no family history of this disorder,
But ten-out-of-twelve succumb to it,
So he says,
As I try and do the math,
The manifestation of this illness becomes clear,
Ten of twelve is equal to...umm...let's see...if there were one hundred...divided by...umm...okay wait...say we had twelve...or no ten...hold on...let's round this up to the nearest number...what is thirteen..dividing it by eleven...when chances are...2:1...is that what he said? Oh **** I am terminal...minus 1.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
A week of pills awaits your mother
In their little plastic bins;
Remembering them is now her bother
A handful each, across the labeled row.
Saturday's her day to fill,
One each,
A steady line of soldiers:
Pills to calm her and to thrill,
Pills to orient her heart...
To end the day...and start it.
To speed the ticker up,
Or to ****** it.
Then of course, the irony...
(We can't forget this part!)
Pills to make the side-effects
Of other pills depart.
Therapies with warnings are included,
What to take with food or take without,
And whom to call should side-effects appear.
(No one ever reads a word;
The print is much too small)...
"Besides, this is the only cure."
A pharmaceutic's pleasure is
Dispensing colored regulators...
Encapsulated or enterically en-coated...
To **** the cancer?
An important goal...
But more, I think,
The goal should be
To save the patient....
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
Where you sat to wait out the seasons
In your maple chair, tucked in the corner
Born from smoke and dried lavender,
Old photographs and dusty necklaces
Stained the tablecloth with your empty smiles
Puffed out smoke, eyes wide out the window
Half asleep at the table in your blue bathrobe
Buried in notebooks of days past,
In a silence of summer mornings
And hazy afternoons in bed.
And that your breath was like acid,
It still stains me today and
Your words were as sweet-
When you emptied those bottles.
Still, you loved like no other
Could
Devise.
Summer nights, beer, angry phone calls-
Where I slept and knew not
What is was you did, or why it was wrong
But when the police came,
I still hid under the coffee table.
A young child's world tossing and turning
Constant, like seas that grow with rain.
Your warm presence,
Easing eyes, thick hair, soft words
The all encompassing memory that sings "Mother"
In a delicate drawl like lace on the backs of brides.
Where I sat and we laughed over daily things
And you'd tell me about your new friend
The bird that you saw, what you'd drawn
Each day you reminded me of your dreams for us,
We'd rise out of this hole
"Twelve days", you'd said in dark
You would heal,
no more medicines or therapies,
and you might have been on your way there.
Where your body draped over the toilet
Fourty-five coursing through your veins
Lungs struggling to grasp air,
Arms went limp and neck grew cold
Did you regret the decision you had made?
Darling mother.
Where I stood in the door frame
And gazed over your lifeless body,
Paralyzed in fear
Stumbled to the trees to hear my mind's calm
To escape the screaming of
Too young
Too old, at one tragic time
Quivering to check your wrists for some jumping pulse
But only a deep stillness sat over you,
Froze you in time.
And still frozen in my memory you sit,
Somewhere between where moments turn to memory
And where lifetimes turn to fiction.
Do not worry, mother.
When you left, you did not leave ashes
But a gaping pit that requires the strength of an army to fill
And the courage of a millennium to even admit it's there.
For everything you lacked, it was a gift.
To that same seven year old that hid
In a midnight hallway across a despairing wreck of a mother
And taught her to hold on.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
All alternative therapies
and all religious practices
may be placebos,
like we might as well
drink sugar water,
but we shouldn't forget
that a placebo
sometimes is a cure,
simply because we believe.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
Scarpered for the siren liquor
Shame-seared claret cheeks
Lost to time and regulation
Found by terrified relation
Taught that gravity was quicker
Supine in the streets
Too pie-eyed for interventions
Fuddled buccaneer
Too aware for rectifiers
No relief with pacifiers
Banished now for contraventions
No more welcome here
Therein lies the contradiction
Tricksy elbow-bender
You designed this cunning passport
Teamed constabulary transport
Speedy coveted eviction
Purposeful offender
Now we nurse the convalescent
Scarring quips ignore
Dodging pleading, wounding protest
Culpable without an inquest
Feeling without feel-depressant
Pain-drink tug-of-war
Where to put our damaged kindred
Languishing in grief
Ductile truth in glass distended
Remedies are not extended
Therapies are judgement-tinted
Distanced from relief
Imminent familiar wipeout
Nowhere safe to be
Don’t do as the doc suggested
Cede to being bottle-bested
Bottle-lock in private hideout
Throw away the key
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 12:56 AM UTC
They call it flooding
sensory overloading and psyche attack
persisting harping on negatives acts created
this to a spineless snowflake would drive insane
they see it as gnawing at a scar re opening wounds for pain
or the torturing style of keeping a prisoner awake while music runs
playing unappreciated sounds over and over and over and over again
he sadist ****** buzzes believing we are doing his head cracking it
I see emotional intelligence
this is psychotic obsession by an inferior bully
imagine the damage inherent in minds such as these
imagine how useless inadequate unfulfilled and pained to do this
I feel sorry for them then I find it funny they put in time and effort
then even funnier that there is no bases in reality or truth to it at all
perhaps sadly I also see there are loads of unhinged people around
then gainfully it all reinforces my confidence and self assurance
and in all modesty the difference between good education an *******
But there is something I do not comprehend
why ingrates have not considered that if their acts impacted
I have choice to leave site and not read their delusion therapies
do they imagine I am masochistic or numb as they erroneously say
I think not its simply narcissists are arrogant and lack introspection
which brings me to a salient assertion which again I state humbly
If I'm going to be driven mad it would not be by a bunch of asinine nutcases and semi illiterate spineless cowards and certified toe-rags
I rest my Lords......
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
Leather seats and fluorescent lighting
Dressed up insight deigned as wisdom when it's
Nothing more than cheap talk
White noise that fills the time with a shallow stare
Sitting with no real new ideas
No experience to relate to
Yet you dare to call this therapy
For years I endure this
I'm told that it will help
He can deduce the cause of my idiosyncrasies
As if being different is a disease
Failing to find a way to truly help
Letting this anger and frustration boil
like a bitter stew
This is not my therapy
My therapy lies in a sea of strangers
Dead center of the crowd, a clearing appears
It is there I find my release
Leaping in, I make eyes with a stranger
Without words, a deal is made
A pact that is honored for the sole reason
That we understand each other
We are each other's therapists
Charging forward, we collide
The pain numbed by soundwaves and adrenaline
Like a bullet off of Superman, we ricochet
Our bodies meet that of another
They shove us away but it is welcome
Time disappears
Lost in these moments
The most physical of therapies
Our bodies become busted and broken
The pain is welcome
With each collision, each shove, we find release
Anger dissipates with each bruise
Each crack of flesh on flesh, bone against bone
Lets loose a wave of pent-up hostility
It a balloon popping with a smile
This sought out violence is not aggression
This is compassion of the highest caliber
Complete strangers
Locking eyes and saying, I am here
Release your fury upon upon me
Without judgement, I can assist you
You place your life in this figure's hands
Because they are willing to do the same
You know that they will makes sure you survive
And the wall of people behind you
A group of people will make sure you do not fall
And ask for nothing in return
And once the night ends
You relish the aches
Every bruise is a battle scar
From a war that you know is not yet over
But for now, you march away
Until your next session
Of Mosh Therapy
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
My mind screams STRANGLE
and my heart whimpers a cry I don't hear.
This doctors not to be trusted,
he's in on it too, I swear.
Where are my claws when I need them?
These petty fingernails just leave red marks
as I sit in this chair like at the dentist,
but instead of cleaning my teeth
they're cleaning my mind!!!
Patches of grey from here on out.
Little dixie cups with pills
that I don't want but I fear for
what happens if I refuse.
'That's a good boy' they say
as I swig down the water,
sour taste left in my mouth.
They don't let you sleep here,
during the day at least.
And they're ALLLL out to get ya,
watching your every move.
I don't know where the entrance is
let alone the exit.
Everythings so clean,
if I could even see straight
I'd see no specks of dust.
Group therapies with more spies,
tryin' to get me to talk.
It's a ploy!
Don't say a word boy!
I play chess with my roommate
cuz the meds don't let me read.
He gets me,
checkmate.
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 9:54 PM UTC
He was institutionalized
Because he was crazy In their eyes
Guess he shouldn't have talked to himself on the streets
But his argument was he just had a really small Bluetooth piece
But to keep the peace he went
Took all his meds
Ate all the food he was fed
Often he cried in his bed
From the shock therapy he got in his head
Even if he was sane
The nurses played doctor with his brain
Making him insane
So he decided opt out the game
He swiped some keys and made it to the outside world
The wind was whipping
And the sky was weeping
It seems as though he had to changed his fate
He could see the entrance gate
There was just a river that kept him fenced in
So he hurried and dived in
Then he remembered
The shocked therapies made him forget
He couldn't swim
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
They call it flooding
sensory overloading and psyche attack
persisting harping on negatives acts created
this to a spineless snowflake would drive insane
they see it as gnawing at a scar re opening wounds for pain
or the torturing style of keeping a prisoner awake while music runs
playing unappreciated sounds over and over and over and over again
them sadist psychos buzzes believing we are doing his head in, cracking it
I see from emotional intelligence
this is psychotic obsessions by an inferior bullies
imagine the damage inherent in minds such as these
imagine how useless inadequate unfulfilled and pained to do this
I feel sorry for them then I find it funny they put in time and effort
then even funnier that there is no bases in reality or truth to it at all
perhaps sadly I also see there are loads of unhinged people around
then gainfully it all reinforces my confidence and self assurance
and in all modesty the difference between good education an *******
But there is something I do not comprehend
why ingrates have not considered that if their acts impacted
I have choice to leave site and not read their delusion therapies
do they imagine I am masochistic or numb as they erroneously say
I think not its simply narcissists are arrogant and lack introspection
which brings me to a salient assertion which again I state humbly
If I'm going to be driven mad it would not be by a bunch of asinine nutcases and semi illiterate spineless cowards and certified toe-rags
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 3:50 PM UTC
When they bring you to therapies, you know what that means?
They think you're crazy.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Where oh where
could my little sense of humour
have gone?
Oh where oh where
could it beeee?
Last time I saw it wandering
trying to find a big enough bin
to put my emotional baggage in
Lost among traumatic memories
It didn't enjoy my therapies
Dampened by big pharma remedies
Sedated, it traveled slowly but far
and despite its growing number of scars
Still searched for truth in the bizarre
I've been finding pieces among the trash
Funnier jokes asking to be rehashed
Of times of freedom, a big ol' stash
Where oh where
could my little sense of humour
have gone?
Oh where oh where
could it beeee?
Finally, happy to see me, we embraced all night
I laughed till I cried at it's clever insight
And now humour and I write
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
I never held you,
only met you once—
a blurry FaceTime smile
through the screen of someone breaking.
Your name still echoes
in the chambers of my heart.
I asked for pictures,
asked about your therapies,
asked if she missed you.
She said yes.
She said so much.
She said nothing at all
that could undo
the dark she kept choosing.
I offered her light.
A room.
A chance.
A future where you had a mother
who came back for you.
But she blurred the days
until stars and moon meant nothing.
She couldn't see you
through the fog.
I tried to be enough
for both of you—
enough to help her
see your little hands
as a lifeline,
not a burden.
But she let go.
I held on too long.
Not to her,
but to hope—
that you'd be her reason.
That love might dig her out
when logic couldn’t.
You were never the problem.
You were the light.
The small, glowing miracle
she left in the dark.
And still,
I think of you.
Jeremiah.
Jerbear.
Sweet boy with a story
written before you could speak it.
Maybe you’ll find me someday,
when you're older,
when the past starts to ache.
I’ll tell you
how I tried.
How your mother did love you—
in a way too bruised to be safe.
In a way too broken to hold on.
But I never stopped thinking
you were worth it.
And I still believe it now.
Mar 23, 2025
Mar 23, 2025 at 6:56 AM UTC
I am my own worst enemy
I lost my mind
Tears - they kept on flowing.
18 electro-convulsive therapies later…
My mind’s all scared..
Like nuking meat in the microwave…
It’s sad and glowing.
On and off the wagon
I hurt my leg and couldn't keep walking.
I beg for help
But I couldn't afford the crutch
Can I play this game, any longer?
Before I lose everything..everyone that I care for?
What I need in my life, so very much?
The storm was started
As anger lit the match
I mended such broken parts back together
Can’t you see? Insanity?
It might be said “to last, forever.”
“Will you get the best of me?”
“Never!”
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 1:46 AM UTC
I think I am cured but still
not assured that yesterday won't get in the way
and mark my cards,
like it did back in the day.
This programme I'm on,
12 million steps long and all
uphill,
will either **** me or make me,
break me or take me beyond where
I was.
I do it because it is there and it only seems fair
I should start paying my dues,
after all
what can I lose but my
life.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
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Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC