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The lion had just lost his dear wife,
Madam lioness a couple of years ago,
She was in the prime of her life,
When she succumbed to deathly udder cancer,
Mr. Lion grieved with all energy of the bereaved beast
To make it worse, he was also terminally ill
Of the vicious lung cancer, boring his windpipes,
That when he respired sweet music came out,
Like classical xylophones of eyeless Mehrun Yurin,

His sons were away commanding respective territories
Each son a territory in the order of traditional monarchy,
No one was to cook for the sick lion, don’t mention washing,
Hence the sons hired the squirrel alias madam Caroline,
She cooked as she did all other chores in the palace,
She was good in a concocting a matchless soup
From white mushrooms and cured goat’s meet,

As Caroline cooked she also sampled by tasting for her perfection
This little by little tasting made her to increase the strength,
Her skin became smooth, her buttocks swell
Her tail became shorter and steady, but very clean,
Her skin very oily and comely, exuding no evil smell,
Her walking style purged to majestic fashion
Even the type of songs she sang
Were not peasant spirituals,
Mr. Hyena wondered and wondered;
Is the squirrel pregnant?

Only to discover she was not,
But she has a new job;
Of cooking for the sick king lion,
Hyena also heard from the public domain
That she often cooks, goat meat and mushrooms,
But the ram tail twice in week; Tuesday and Sunday,
Jealousy and bigotry, malice and prejudice ganged up at once
And gripped the hyena simultaneously,
And swore to himself that come anything;
Spells of sunshine or blizzards of snow,
He must and must; root out the squirrel
From the palace kitchen,

That bright morning he went to the palace,
Singing a Christian song in praise of Lazarus,
Who resurrected from the dead,
He entered the palace still singing,
He commanded every to stand, put off the laurels,
For he wants to pray for the sick,
He made long and noisy circumlocutions of a prayer,
With regular stamping of feet and amen,
Commanding the devil of cancer to leave,
The lungs of the king, the mighty lion.


He said final amen and all sat down
Two sons of the king, the young lions,
Were all in somber moods, their father was sick,

From the kitchen, the squirrel surfaced,
With goats meat on a metallic platter,
He served the sick lion first,
Then each of them present,
On the first taste of food,
Hyena lost control of nerves
His tail jumped out of the white trouser
That he was wearing that day,
He ate voraciously with a crazy appetite,
No such delicious food had ever crossed his way.

He cleared his food first as expected,
Then he kept mum like a stooge,
Only wagging his long tail
His long tongue hanging out
Flagging in avarice like leaves of banana,
When all others stopped eating,
Hyena began in form of a question,
To which the lion’s family listened
Indeed with kingly caution;
Am asking you the king,
Why is Madam Caroline the squirrel,
Eating your food everyday,
And you are dying of a treatable disease,
To which she has the medicine,
Why is she betraying you?
To such a simple death?

All the lions plus the sick one
Jumped to the squirrel with all horror,
For the squirrel to bring the cure
Or the be killed first be the lion dies,
She pleaded for a minute to bring the drug,
Hyena in full gear of happiness
As his friend chews misfortune,

She blamed her small body size to be the  barrier
To bringing the medicine for king lion,
But nonetheless medicine was available,
Lions roared tell us! Where is the medicine?
In a soft voice the squirrel said;
The only cure for this disease of the king,
Is a fresh liver of a male hyena!

The hyena was frozen with surprise,
Like any other foolish bigot,
He begged to leave as his time was over,
No answer came to his request,
Other than abysmal darkness
Of violent death gulfing his body,
King lion drunk Hyena’s blood
In addition to the liver
On the squirrel’s instructions,
The lion became well
And began walking strong,
Out of this joy
King lion  promoted the squirrel
To be a minister of health
In the kings palace.
Skaidrum Jan 2016
...
"Take your crimes and medication."

Pill one.
I have come to loathe eating.
Countless days pass without a morsel of food,
typically weeks without a real full meal.
I find it remarkable, really;
that my sense of taste and hunger became living corpses
that linger within my mouth like something died on my tongue.
I have a few options at this point but here's my choice~~
~~leave the silverware clean, bare and cold---
it's purest when cold.
I don't even know why I am not hungry.
I never thought I'd see the day where I'd decline the offer on raspberries.
(They always will be my favorite...)
Now, my ribcage blooms like a garden~
~rib bones that beg to flower through
the soil that is my skin.
Skeletons don't sit at the dinning table because
starving is a special kind of beautiful.
Yet this is oddly okay to me.
And when I do dare to silence it,
the mild sting of hunger that pulls you like the moon;
It's regret that's delivered in a bullet or two.
Disgust crawls up my spine and drags nails along
the lining of my stomach.
Don't eat that, it's poison.
Rejection becomes my immediate releif.
Family and friends can't help but worry
Eyes flicker to the length of my waist,
voices question my weight when I'm lifted
the subtle stare at how my bones scream against snowy skin.
I don't blame them or the rumors;
I know I am skinny, and I know am empty.
I just don't want to eat anymore...
I am so sorry for that.
(Am I supposed to be sorry for that?)

Pill two.
Don't ask me if I got any sleep.
The answer will always be "no", or "not enough."
I was diagnosed two years ago with insomnia.
You don't know what suffering is until
you can't ******* sleep.
I didn't think it was that bad,
boy, I must've been related to ignorance.
It's torture watching the world never press pause.
My record is six nights and seven days, almost a full week
Caged myself in because my thoughts
were killers for freedom.
Why can't I sleep?
Here's the catch though;
I don't like sleep either.
No comfort calls your name,
not when you can remember every dream you've had since
the year 2009.
I don't have happy dreams, for those of you that do not know.
They call this disease hyper-realistic dreaming,
it's something my doctor hesitates to openly discuss.
(They don't have the answers to my mother's panicked questions or my father's accusing glare.)
They're terrified of the unknown too.
The concept of dreaming in such detail,
of every person place or thing
isn't exactly treatable
Fun fact:
I talk to the dead sometimes.
You know, people who have passed away.
They tell me it's the regrets that ******* you behind your back.
Hyper-realistic dreaming is absolute madness.
Pretty sure wonderland doesn't look any different than
the waking realm.
The word nightmare,
yeah, I don't like using it.
It visits whether I'm awake or not.
Doesn't make a ******* difference.
But the doctors only care about my insomnia.
Figures, I mean.
"It's just a sleeping sickness, strong medication should fix it."
Liar.
Rest has become a form of torture for me.
I'm sorry for whatever I did to deserve this.

Pill three.
Speaking of torture,
I own 19 scars that I never asked for.
My father is responsible for 18 of these scars.
Abuse is just a 5 letter word.
Funny how death sits lightly in 5 letters.
Pain is just a 4 letter word.
Oh look, so does life.
I've been waiting for salvation but I know I'm not worthy.
My father is the root of my depression.
I am his flawed design and greatest disappointment.
"YOU *******----"
hands crash into my lungs
nails engrave wounds like some sick reminder
you don't need to remind me
I already know what I've done wrong
please dad, don't hit me

Yet instantly I hit the floor harder than any stone does.
I cry quietly, forcing the sobs to talk the language of silence.
If he knows I'm suffering it'll only make it worse.
Praise is something that does not pass his lips.
"You're ******* worthless, you ugly girl."
Insults act like vultures that never quite leave our house.
"You stupid blonde *****, DO IT RIGHT."
My grades weren't high enough to please his highness.
(I had a 3.975 GPA this semester.)
"I can't wait to watch you fail."
A disgusting disgrace of a daughter that's never going to fill the shoes of "enough."
There are so many times where I have been punished for
my "crimes",
kicked, beaten, scratched, sliced, man-handled, hit, and bruised..
I don't think it's fair to name the rest.
It's all an act of order to obtain my obedience.
The secrets within these walls sneer at me~~
~~how unfortunate that our walls are white.
You see blood is a hard stain to remove and red likes
to leave the ghost of orange upon the white paint.
I don't think you understand,
that this has been happening ever since I was his little 7 year old.
Or, you know, maybe longer.
Oblivion flew south and reality crawled in long ago.
You can't just chase reality out,
she's a force of nature that takes the life out of all of us.
I have been a victim to my father for as long as I can remember.
An example of the cycle of abuse continues tonight;
Tonight my father told me,
"I wish you were dead."
That can be arranged, dad.
You don't know pathetic until you've seen me lying there
after the aftermath that was my most recent "mistake",
clutching the ground like maybe if I pretended enough
it would hold me.
They tell me it's just the alcohol talking.
That all of this was his own father's doing.
My dad had it "so much worse."
I'm sorry your father hurt you, dad
I'm sorry you feel like you have to hurt me.


Pill four.
My wounds make their homes beneath my heart,
six inches to left, furrowing downwards.
This is the nerve that throbs in death's long fingers.
False strength will save those who you love.
Good thing I "believed" I was strong.
It's a ******* joke.
I'm not strong.
I am a white angel dressed in lies.
Yet there I was;
Standing with perfect posture as the universe
and my friends stacked their troubles
up my trembling shoulders and back.
Nicknames spilled off their tongues,
I was proud of these titles that I don't actually deserve.
I am the psychiatrist.
The Healer.
The Caretaker.
The Mother
The Saint
The Kind Maiden
The Helper
The Keeper of the Dragons
The Poet of the Wolves
The Moon Warrior
The moonlight weeping through the willow branches;
The Person Who Fixes Everything
The Wise Guardian Angel.
How couldn't they notice I was nothing divine.
Plucking them from the coffins of depression and despair
that they laid themselves to rest in.
It is no easy task.
And sometimes this means their words are
the gashes to glide down my arms and sides,
blood making the puddles at my feet.
Physical pain is bearable when it's for them.
Again we revisit the word
"Abuse."
As they are humans and they practice this sin
upon me.
I accept the harm with no self-defense.
Because I was cursed to love them.
Even the ones,
that reek desolation upon my soul.
They have all gone for the **** before.
You can take it out on me,
I will balance your burdens.
"Let me help you..."
I'm sorry you're hurting, I'm here for you
I'm sorry I became like this?
(I definitely am not supposed to apologize for that.)


Pill Five.
I have a past lover, she is my Wolf Girl.
I have learned to love her like ambrosia in a bottle.
It doesn't matter that I am no longer her lover...
She is and always will be my best friend.
We once talked about our friendship like a legend.
One man that went off to war,
and how he left his loyal dog behind.
The loyal dog waited for his master until the man returned from service and suffering;
the dog's love never swayed.
For many years they remained apart and alone
paths refusing to entertwine,
but once reunited they picked their relationship up and continued like nothing had ever separated them to begin with.
We never decided who the dog or the man was.
But we both have always known.

I hold her responsible for saving me, and uncovering
the remains of a silver child.
She ripped my heart open to expose the stitches and raw emotion;
below my feet sung the wolves,
along my collarbone perched the stars.
The moon basked in my skin when she told me,
You are beautiful.
I knew she was lying but I still forced those words down my throat,
swallowing the growing flame of black lies.
To this day I will never forget,
even if she has forgotten.
I don't see a reason to hurt, I knew I was unworthy to begin with.
Sifting through a jar of ashes I found our memories,
the day we first met, first became best friends...
She was the wolf and wasn't afraid to bite the hand that fed her.
That was how she taught me to survive,
Trust me when I say I learned more than just survival.
Casting a glance at the past 5 years I recall
what the value of strength was.
She lent me her own,
~so I bargained my way to the heavens~
a prayer for the day I would become a goddess of divinity-------
---- I found out Naïve was my middle name.
The demons found me and I had no fangs to sharpen,
so they tied me to a willow tree.
There I was possessed, and hung by my wrists,
humiliation and weakling branded into my ankles.
"This is how we put dreamers in their place!"
Is what the shadows screamed in octaves of smoke.
And that was how my wolf girl found me,
hanging and half-alive in my favorite crying tree.
She....
She laughed with sunlight flashing in crystal teeth.
Before plunging vicious knives into my stomach.
Until the  words gouged at places hidden beneath tender poetic flesh...
My screams never reached another living soul.
Dragging open my belly to reveal what innocence I had left,
I watched as poison caught fire to her words;
I was annoying
I was clingy
I was loud, unaware, and
oblivious.
I loved the same she had loved
stolen the moon from her nightless sky without realization
and caused heartbreak and spread disease in her wake
she knew what the demons did~~~

"And yet you loved every second of it, didn't you Lycan?"
~~~~
I know, I know
all of that was so long ago, yet I cannot help myself.
I don't hang from trees anymore,
and I don't talk to wolves in sheep skins any longer.
That doesn't stop me though;
The questions slither into my palms and onto the page
where navy ink scratches letters
into rotten white paper;
Like snakes in the tomb of my heart.
"Why did you save me?"
"Why didn't you save me when I needed you most?"
"Oh wait, right, you never had to..."
"What love could you possibly harbor
for me?"
"Did you ever love me?"
"No, probably not."
"Will it ever be okay again?"
"Why didn't you let me in when you needed me?"
"Was it worth it?  Jack I mean...was he worth it?"
"Was it worth those seven months?"
"You're more than lust."
"Did your sins finally catch you, Lycan?"
Wolves find glory in preying upon the weaker species.
You knew I was weak from day one.
"Why didn't you **** me when you had the chance?"
I'm sorry I defiled you.
Apologies that you went to the trouble of teaching me the hard way.

And finally,
I'm sorry that I dared to love you, Allie.


Pill six.
Let me put it in simple terms;
I hate myself.
I have come back from the brink of death for the thousandth time,
and I'm so sick of it.
My mind is a battlefield of depression and
I am no match for the darkness that borderline feasts on my soul.
They never left after they hung me pretty in that tree.
Thoughts that take my life piece by piece like casualties in war.
No, you don't understand.
I am beyond saving.
I have been,

for a very long time.
No matter how long I look into a mirror
I cannot find a trace of beautiful.
The glass doesn't bother lying to me, not anymore...
That's how I know all of you are lying to me.
I have let the insanity slide a dagger into my spine
ripping a **** upwards to my neck.
This is where bone touches the air and I don't recover.
R e l l a p s e
I hate everything about myself,
what I have become,
wallowing in the pity because I am far too tired;
to swim, to try, to leave.
I descend into the black sea of ink that
I bathe myself in every hour to keep from feeling agony.
As a poet, it's the only title I hold onto with an ounce of pride.
Among the fields of grief I lay in my oaken coffin
pathetic words snaking into my mind
betrayal chewing at my insides,
memories play hide and seek between lost and broken treasures.
There is nothing left.
Not anymore.
And never again.
What more can I give when the nightfall erases me?
How much longer must I endure
my punishment for being human?
I was never mighty but
my how I've fallen.


"Are you okay?"
Don't think, just lie.
"How are you feeling?"
Lie faster.
"Oh my god, what happened?"
Lie for their sake.
"How are you?"
Whatever you do
"What's wrong?"
Just lie
"You seem kinda off today..."
If you tell them it's all over.
"Kira, are you alright?"
Lie until the truth becomes one.
"Seriously, you're...you're sure you're alright?"
You can't let that monster out, she'll destroy whatever you love left.
"Are you lying?"
"I'm so...so sorry everyone.
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm......s--"


I forgot to mention I have pills to take now.
For my insomnia, way back up in pill two up there...
Special pills that play roulette with the grim reaper.


Instructios:
"Kira, take only one pill at a time.  Please make sure to count if you swallow several at once.  These pills are very dangerous, potentially deadly if not consumed correctly."
"Alright."
"Take one pill, and if you can't fall asleep in an hour wait til tomorrow night to take two.  If that doesn't work, then the next night take three, and then four.  Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Kira, please be cautious if you take five. I cannot stress enough how much I want you to be careful, it could damage your internal organs. It's like asking for a light coma, for 20 hours you'll be asleep."
"Okay."
"And Kira...whatever you do... NEVER take six pills.   You won't wake up after that.    Promise me you'll never take six...
"I promise Dr. Cline."
Well, I lied.  Shocker, right?
I am so terribly sorry that I cannot keep my promise...

One
Two
Three
Four
Five...
Only....Six
that's all it takes.





I'm sorry is the only signature I leave on my suicide note.
...
.


I couldn't keep this in,
it's not poetry it's a rant.
Apologies for my confession....


But it's over now.
judy smith Oct 2015
Getting a diagnosis of cancer is a life-changing experience. That’s what Noa Sorrell realized over the past year.

“I was diagnosed in January this year with Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” the 11-year-old Texas girl said. “I was kind of scared, but the doctor said that it would be treatable, very treatable, even if it wasn’t a simple thing. So I wasn’t too worried because he said that, but I was a little worried.”

The treatment left Noa Sorrell with a lot of time on her hands.

“I was in chemo for three months,” she explained. “And I didn’t have anything to do. So I would have really bored, if I hadn’t started sewing and designing clothes.”

Make-a-Wish

Noa learned how to sew from her grandmother, who passed away last year. She always dreamed of becoming a fashion designer and the Make-a-Wish Foundation made it happen. The nonprofit group grants wishes to children with life-threatening illnesses, and they arranged for Noa to show off her clothes during Los Angeles Fashion Week.

Using her late grandmother’s old “Singer” machine, Noa created a clothing line, a spring collection for preteen girls, inspired by flowers and bright colors.

“I was very nervous because I wasn’t sure if I was going to finish my work on time,” Noa admitted. “But at the same time, I was very excited for the Fashion Week and I was working really hard because on top of trying to sew a collection of 10 pieces in a month-and-a-half, I also had school and many other things."

Determination and love

Noa's mother, Maralice Sorrell, says the idea of producing something during the time her daughter was receiving her chemotherapy was very empowering for her, adding that her determination and love for sewing helped her meet that goal. She recalled that, at times, Noa was so tired she had to wheel her in a shopping cart into the fabric store so she could pick material for her designs.

“She’s a very dedicated student,” Sorrell said. “She would do her homework and then sit at this sewing machine, sometimes four hours a day. Sometimes she would sit until 4:00 a.m. She said she wanted to have a website. So we bought her a domain and told her, you have to learn how to do it. So she would sew while she’s at home and when she’s in the hospital she would work on the website.”

Working, and still dreaming

Noa continues to design and sew clothes for her friends at school and her family.

“Her friends do a lot of sports and biking," Sorrell explained. “She made them reversible tank tops. For herself, she made a dress for the fashion show that matches her personality. She dressed her sister with a black dress that also matches her sister. She has the eye for creating things that match someone’s taste and personality and we would like very much help her grow that.”

Noa says her dream is to become a well-known fashion designer.

“I want to start selling my designs," she said. “I’m not sure how I’m going to do it, but what I know I want to see people wearing my designs.”

Her mother also has a dream.

“I want to see her growing up. That’s my wish. I want to see her happy.”

Noa says she is happy. She has a new sewing machine and keeps busy, studying and creating her fall and winter collections.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney

www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit .  He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete ,  bi-polar disorder and  Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
            Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs  not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Created confusion purposefully ! I  blended the two topics together so that the plight of the mentally ill could be read by some that are more worried about our infrastructure right now. Cry for help blended in a topic that is receiving far more attention these days !

Copyright September 25 , 2015 by Randolph Wilson * All  Rights Reserved
Matt McClinton Oct 2012
They say I've been here for three days
These young folk in white coats
Telling me that this is serious, but treatable
I have lived three even four of their lifetimes

Two weeks have past, I feel more pain
I have not felt grass or the sun since I walked through the doors of this horrid place
With the tile floors, white walls
Scrubs constantly walking through the halls

Beeping machines
Vegetables, con-artists, and bad misfortunes on good people
rest in cold rooms
on terrible beds

I couldn't pronounce the name of it
A strange elixir probably made in a lab
Some young coat said it will cure me
However the side effects are grueling

The white coat was right
I have lost all time and clarity
A state of consciousness no more
Sifting through this waist deep puzzle

Now I am floating, no longer stuck in my bed
No needles and machines surrounding me
Down below I see a beach
I know of this place

This moment is surreal, below is my brother and I
We are running on the sand
It is a warm August day
I will always remember this

Familiar faces surround me
Yet the room is so slow
These are my friends
“You'll pull through” they say

A bonfire in the woods
Beer and smokes in every adolescent hand
Attempts to fit in I walk around
Then I saw her, she was so beautiful

Why have the walls changed
The window no longer faces my right
I can now see the tops of the trees
“Intensive Care Unit” written on the door

Evening stroll with the girl from the party
The dress how could I forget about the dress

There is a tray of food in front of me
**** excuse of a meal
No familiar faces today, only white coats and needles pricking and poking
Another machine “This will help sir”

The saw mill, my first job
The sounds of the mill grow louder
Metal slicing wood, screaming and yelling in agony
Ear piercing pain

A new face in a chair, my daughter
She looks weary two three tissues in hand
A hug and a forehead kiss “to help pass the time”
Deck of cards presented on my lap, I forgot my love for them

The air is tense, my daughter yelling
New white coated men take her hand
She cries and the air thins
I cannot read their lips, she is her mother

Full suitcases and an empty room
Happy tears run down my mothers face
Acceptance letter hung on the fridge
“Proud of you son” the first and last time

Who's hands are these
Hands worn by time and the sun, such difficulty to form a fist
Texture of a tree, cut me open
Count the rings to know my age

On the stage receiving my master's
The hours spent studying
Sacrificed Friday nights deep in a textbook
This is my proudest moment

Satisfying an itch sudden pain
Down at my chest lies a new wound
Perhaps they took my soul
Destined to live as an ever growing bed sore

Rows of cubicles
The days of emails and brown nosing higher-ups
Late nights drowned in beer
Slowly drifting from my family

Oxygen mask around my mouth
Bored grandchildren begging parents to go home
Go ahead. Leave
Let me enjoy my final days alone

Beer bottles shattered across the floor
My family walking out the door
My demons caused my family to leave
I never saw the girl from the party again

In my dying moments I realized a truth
We spend our lives wanting more
Only to be kept alive in a pitiful state
Having friends and family surround your semi-lifeless corpse

I no longer wish to be imprisoned in this
Old, weak, and cancerous cadaver
I have become what I feared
Forever waiting for tomorrow’s applesauce

This time falling from high distance
Finally clarity, a want for freedom no more
Reflecting regrets and mistakes of the past no more
Suddenly stopping I awake in the white walls

In my final spring of energy I rose my arm
“On my own terms” I whisper and I begin to break my shackles
Fail safe alarms from my prison, no chance of survival
White coats rushing in. Wasted effort

and alas, eternal sleep
She yearned to fly
Chained down to the eartH
Her hear gets barely by
Confronted by her worth
Inside she Seeks to die
Escape the too familiar LIe
Yet freedom keeps its distance
Death eludes her sigh
And Mournfully her own resistance
To even only try..
She rEtains an eerie stance
TOo  solid tO fly
In darkness where she abides
Its from the light she desperatElY hide
Closed off from spring and summer sun
Winters grip HAs finally run
Her Soul tO ebb like the tide
Past mEmories left to die
This state they cAll being aLive..
And on the horizon a mere vision
Of whom she once had envision:
HERSELF-yet she had died!!
Her mind the field of battle
NoIses in her ears rattLe
A voice of TimelESs DeSpair
Have left feaR in HEr wherE
She  once Owned hOpe
Now iT LefT to roam
LEaving her alone To cope
WitH what she USed TO Own
Dreams ALas she "ll never know..
If


You


Per chance
Happened Her BY
Look only into her eyeS

And If she runs AnD try to fLy
Remember this


""DEprESsIoN isn't a State of mind
ItS a treatable ailment""

.....
Depression is treatable...
Oh four letter word, little four letter word

Why are you so much trouble?

You get inside us

Into the air we breathe

You are more infectious than the common cold

And as un-treatable as an addiction to oxygen

You are the easiest thing and most basic thing we look for,

and yet you are the hardest to find

Or are you?

Are you hard to find,

Or we blind?

Are you a disease, an addiction

Or are you the cure?

Are you inside us,

Or are we inside you?

Are you trouble,

Or are we?

Are you a feeling

Or the space between where we do things not because they are good for us

But because they are good for them

Him

Her

A feeling, or the space between

Or are you the thing that made us

That formed us

That made the world broken

Because we cannot experience love if we are not broken, not really

Love

Are you God?
frankie crognale Mar 2015
i think of the romantics as the hippies of society. not that there's anything wrong with sitting in a VW van in a field of sunflowers listening to the Beatles and smoking blunts all day and night, im totally the advocate for that, but is that all there is? there's so much more, and it isn't all sunshine and rainbows like they teach you in kindergarten, and that's one of the biggest problems with the education systems throughout the world these days. we're sheltered. we're sheltered to no end. what would the kid that didn't know anything about police brutality or a drug cartel do the first time when he was ready to emerge into the real world? he would ******* **** himself because he was sheltered. and then the mental illness factor comes in, what would his friends do? they'd never been exposed to that, they didn't even know such a thing was possible. because they were sheltered. maybe the kids in his neighborhood would begin to get the same thoughts and **** themselves too because they thought they were ******* crazy for thinking the way they were because nobody ever told them that mental illnesses are nothing to be ashamed of and they're treatable and they don't make you a bad person. what makes someone a bad person is lying to someone by telling them everything will always be okay, because everything won't always be okay. and that's realism.
Nirvani Teasley Apr 2014
The bird’s broken wing
Appears to be treatable—
Broken hearts not so
mvvenkataraman Apr 2010
I see the body there
Their agonies all share
And express that they care
The death they could not bear
They curse the Air
Saying leaving is unfair
They feel that loss is a nightmare
They pray for God to repair
To cremate the body they prepare
They sympathize with the body's pair
To treat the body as God they dare
All hearts the sad scenes tear
Time to stay they generously spare
Such sympathy was very rare
This I can strongly declare
My pains were to all fall of hair
About my pitiable plight all were aware
O- Human beings- Please be beware
During my living you all gave a scare
Now love you kindly wear
Not knowing I went where

When I was available
I found living impossible
Though I was capable
My problems were incurable
The World was responsible
For making my life unmanageable
I was facing severe trouble
But the World was not helpfully reliable
For my downfall, World was liable
They made my life terrible
Though my condition was horrible
And I looked meek and pitiable
They found me to live unsuitable
My credentials were to them doubtable
My peace was just like that lootable
Though my malady was treatable
They made it appear formidable
In spite of my actions being laudable
They commented that I was insensible
After end, I am to all of them agreeable
O- Human beings- You are incorrigible.


M V VENKATARAMAN
The World commits mistakes, Giving lots of aches, One's heart it breaks,
After end amends it makes, But before that God takes, End puts for agonies brakes.
Olivia Kent Oct 2014
The mother of all oxo cubes.
Family trials and tribulations.
Queen of British t.v.
Between the programs, she would slip.
Sons at college.
And daughter's love issues.
Always there with good food and tissues.
Succumbed to the big bad "C".
Bowel cancer.
So in this poem entirely dedicated to this cool lady, I hereby leave a message.
If your body is playing up.
If your number twos flow out as water would, for more than a week or two,
Tell your medic about your flowing issue.
If you notice blood running through your it too.
May just be in the toilet pan.
Any persistent lower abdominal pain, my advice is please to do the same.
Go see your doctor as soon as you can.
This big "C" is fairly common.
Bowel cancer is treatable.
If you catch it in good time.
Linda Bellingham.
Rest In Peace.
So sorry you couldn't keep your real family's Christmas date.
Sleep well.
(C) Livvi
Tony Beldin Apr 2012
“CLINICAL DEPRESSION”

You try desperately to cling to a familiar happier past but the hopeless future
  
Is all that you can see through the tunnel of your vision.  The black demon Misery tears

from your soul all that is light and happiness.  It is then you feel the full Measure of your

emptiness bearing down upon you, as the overwhelming sadness of This world assaults

your senses.  The dawn brings a black flower of despair that blooms quickly and drinks in

your fading sanity; you are left as though dead, Staring into an abyss, that drains all

energy and motivation.  Though you ache For it, no comfort or reprieve is found; you are

helpless to defeat even the gravity  which holds you to your bed, now you’re only world.

Friends and loved ones Beseech you, “pull yourself together” and “it can’t be that bad”.

Nevertheless, even Well-meaning love and compassion cannot penetrate the darkness that envelops.

Finally, as you feel the rope tighten…

So deadly, so treatable. Learn the early signs and get help.
Bec Apr 2016
Treatable, but
incurable.
Take one pill twice a day,
probably for the rest of your life.
There's no guarantee
on how many days, months, years
you've got left.
You could feel fine one week,
then have Death on speed dial the next.
Of course, they tell you the
survival rate is very high.
So you sit there in the dark,
but hey, you're alive, right?
The doctors don't use the word 'terminal'
when diagnosing you.
But, then again, they don't have to.
Kind of my own personal view on living with depression and anxiety
Waitherero Sep 2012
life is to live and not to waste,
life is to love and not to hate,
life ist to give and receive,

life can be miserable
but thats treatable.

life is all we make of it,
so do not seat life out, go about
because life is in those moments,...

in those moments you will see,...
you will seek,...

all life is about is to live
and to be alive
#life #live #waste #hate #give #miserable #moments #seeking #alive
wolfbiter May 2014
I find it a bit unsettling how

The more familiar a house becomes

The more I begin to fear it.

Perhaps it is because over time

I begin to learn the finer details

Like where the silver wear is kept,
Or where the person split their forehead

On the banister at the bottom of the steps

And their father took them to get stitches

While their mother complained 

About the blood stains on the floor.

I memorize the creaks in the stairs

And learn where not to put my feet

So I can quietly leave,

Undetected in the morning.

I feel haunted in the comfort

Of another one’s home because

The moment I begin to treat it as my own

I start to learn about all the secrets,

The ghosts in the walls

And the past that built the foundation.

I wonder if this is treatable

Or if I’ll live with this homesickness forever.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2017
~


and, to the young,
it comes with bitterest agony,
because it takes them unawares.
The older have learned to ever expect it.”


Abraham Lincoln

~~~

time is the seasoning spice,
rubbed into the unwanted go to hell gifted
cracks and crevices,
of aging,
ever deepening tracks of rusted orange paprika tears that are undepletable

experience, that cursed pretend friend,
has been-weathered worn upon our faces

you young think you have it all,
you cannot have my sorrows

though they come to  
me well awares
undisguised in shiny silver sunlight and
full moon bright,
whipped, collected and freight-weighed by the poundage

the tears of surprise are no wetter than mine
and surely but half as bitter as mine
than have accumulated and aged and bred permanence cursed down upon my
grayed hairs

you weep grievously
throw your body twisted to the floor
then you realize mine
is already there -
a cushion for you
and hardwood
my pillow

you have hope of repair -

making surprises treatable, tenable
and tentative

perhaps your gasp
of shock
louder than my grasp
of yet another cut's meaning

but learning to expect it
neither lessens it or
ameliorates

you want proof?

look upon me, come look upon me or better yet
look upon the portraiture
of Abraham Lincoln
February 16th, 2016

see

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1555158/abraham-lincolns-famous-civil-war-condolence-letter-to-young-*****-mccullough-about-death-loss-and-memory/

~~~
O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
                         But O heart! heart! heart!
                            O the bleeding drops of red,
                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
                         Here Captain! dear father!
                            This arm beneath your head!
                               It is some dream that on the deck,
                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                   But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.
honey May 2017
veins.

i’m made of scars and too much blood pouring out of me. I’m made of razor blades and roof tops and letters i wanted to leave behind but i couldn’t, i never could
2. face.

i’ve never been pretty. average at my very best. they all say looks don’t matter, but come on, no one can say i’m beautiful with a straight face and that’s not something i can change
3. miles.

i’m not close enough to touch and that kills us both. you need a warm body to hold and i don’t blame you I’m just too distant and i’ve got ice cold hands
4. medicine.

it’s a little too much and that’s okay. i’ve got more prescriptions than friends and the diseases in my head won’t stop killing me, they’re treatable not curable
5. habits.

i’m always ******* drunk and you don’t like that. i can’t handle anything except my pills and i like to test my limit, another cigarette, another drink and you’re fading away
6. past.

my life before we met was never calm. i have memories i can’t place with hands i don’t remember, turbulence is all i know and that made you feel too unstable, i understand
7. bones.

i wasn’t born in the right body. i’m scared to show who i am to anyone but you, and maybe that brought us closer but it’s tearing me apart inside and you had to see that
8. ichor.

we think we’re celestial, like stars on earth. i’m an angel who’s here on mistake and you fell too soon, but divinity burns and we don’t know where we’re going
9. gone.
i’m ruined. i’m ugly. i’m distant. i’m sick. i’m addicted. i’m traumatized. i’m wrong. i’m lost.

i’m sorry
haha ow
Caro Jan 2017
Afterwards,
doves were given seats in parliament.
Growth was measured in forests,
greed was a treatable condition and
the only religion was love.
An economy based on death was unthinkable.

The great spirits gathered themselves
once more and proceeded like clouds
moving over the mountains, returning
to the lands of the ancestors, lighting
fires along the way for each of
those that did not make it.

The time of remembering came and went
like a storm or a dream, as all things do,
unfolding crease by crease like a sail in the wind.

That was where we met, your dad and I,
in a field some time after the sunrise.
Tyler King Mar 2016
Under these streets runs the blood of the promises we made, with gold plated markers placed every few feet to remind us of what we lost:
The dream of the beatniks - a needle in the railroad veins of America,  the grand old night skies illuminated by the halos of the restless Benzedrine angels circling overhead with thumbs outstretched for a ride to Somewhere Else,
The dream of the old folk singers - the hatred of tyrants surrounded and forced to surrender, with liberated love and the joyous hymns of the workers filling the cities in equal measure,
The dream of the punks - a Molotov inferno sending politicians from coast to coast running for cover, and everybody able to get off a few good punches before it's over,
The dream of the hipsters - to hit the bottle running and black out before anyone knows they were ever there, to let it all fade out in distorted chords until everybody has to leave and they are the only ones still clapping,

As with all things, there is a story here if you are willing to listen,
For the ghosts of waves who crashed the shores of lakes long dried, destined to rise and crest and break and crash again,
For the muffled beauty of a young boy listening to his favorite record hoping no one is close enough to ruin this moment,
For the faint but distinct sounds of ripping fabric as he discards the days miseries, folded up and prepared to resume come morning,
For the hesitant snip of scissors in another room as he accepts the terms of surrender, followed by the rustling of hair and dignity falling into trash cans,
For the indignant howls of desperation that divide each night into portions,
Those who feel and those who are numb,
But the feeling is only treatable, not curable
And once it is there, one eye is stuck forever watching the horizon waiting for bombs to fall,
The other studying cracks in the foundation waiting for total collapse,
Both know that this has to end one way or another,
And the beatniks sing,
And the old folk singers sing,
And the punks sing,
And the hipsters sing,
And the ghosts all sing,

We either get there or we suffer
We either get there or we suffer
Be mindful. Vitamin B17 won't destroy a tumor. B17 kills the malignant aspect (cells) of the tumor. The tumor will swell as the B17 releases its cyanide/benzaldehyde/sugar. The swelling is alarming, for those who don't expect it. Tumors are 90-95% benign, meaning: they don't shrink considerably when the cancer is gone. Surgery is required, after B17 therapy, if the tumor is impinging on nerves and/or blood vessels.
Akira Chinen Jun 2017
I sit out under the dying sun and feed the hungry mosquitoes of early summer and something else under my skin itches that bothers me more than the simply annoyance of tiny bugs enjoying the blood circling through my flesh and it's not something treatable with slaves or lotions or repellents and it isn't as simple as day turns into night and there just isn't anything that can be done about it but it's far more complex than it need be and should be easier to solve than it ever will be  because the ego of man pitted against intellect and compassion is an easy thing to ******* and nothing of nothing can be solved in the face of a man with a tiny brain that can't process same amount of electricity it takes a baby to say "mama" without short circuiting and going on a twitter rant like a pre-teen in a flame war over which Pokémon character could beat up The Hulk and it's just embarrassing to be human in today's world because I **** you not the dung beetles and cockroaches are life forms worthy of more respect than we are with the crap we're letting go on in today's world and it's just  a dam shame that I can't manage to do more with my blood and flesh then feed some tiny little bugs that don't have to worry about any of the ******* we willingly swim through on a day to day bases and it all bares the weight of a meaningless existence when the dollar out weighs the soul according to the Dow Jones and why should we be worth anything more than what we can do to profit those that have too much but still need more and more when the poor have just enough or almost enough to survive because as long as the poor have the will to survive on less and less and are willing to feast on the trash of the upper filthy class oh did I word that wrong I meant filthy rich in a haha good show James but who let the rift raft into the room way and if a lie is believed as the truth why not just make it the truth and put it into law and separate and divide and spread fear and hate to the gullible and take from the poor and give it all to the rich because god and the devil are dead or make believe or long gone because face it who in their right mind would battle for our wretched souls in the first place but at the end of the day at least I can watch the sun sink and feed something tiny that will at least leave an itch that I can easily scratch and if its all for nothing I'm going to toss it all away to anyone who needs the love because that's the one thing I'll always have for anyone who needs it and can see through all the ******* and is tired of swimming for nothing of nothing and if that's you or you or you come find me at the end of the day and maybe just maybe we can set things right or at least try to do something meaningful despite our meaningless existence
Be mindful. Vitamin B17 won't destroy a tumor. B17 kills the malignant aspect (cells) of the tumor. The tumor will swell as the B17 releases its cyanide/benzaldehyde/sugar. The swelling is alarming, for those who don't expect it. Tumors are 90-95% benign, meaning: they don't shrink considerably when the cancer is gone. Surgery is required, after B17 therapy, if the tumor is impinging on nerves and/or blood vessels.

I have scads of cancer books, the problem being: they're all *******. Cancer is a vitamin-deficiency disease. Its complexity is stupefying (as is the structure of a chihuahua's nostrils) yet, like pernicious anemia, pellagra, scurvy, beriberi & others, cancer's cure abounds in nature. Basically, the seeds of all fruits (save North American citrus) carry amygdalin (B17). On the way to chemo "treatment" a patient walks through & drives by the cure for cancer: green plants. The applied info cured my mother, my father & my sister-in-law in this little soap opera of mine. All relationships have a beginning, a middle & an ending.
Nyssa Nov 2021
My mind is whirling, it is racing.

Is it fixable, treatable?

So much pain unanticipated.

Whilst most have umbrellas, I am made to walk in the rain.
Jacob Hoyle Nov 2018
from Binging to Starving.

from I Love you to I Hate you.

from Excessive Sleeping to Insomnia.

Grey is a concept I cannot grasp. Experiencing life as a High or Low is what’s been apperceived. BPD. Bleak or Bland. Black or White.

The grey ground is my Dead Man’s Land. Satisfaction through any action or emotion is happiness practically fingertips away……

Grey doesn't seem too gloomy if it’s seen as a puffy cloud equipped to drench the world with its invigorating rain.

Clothes being drenched without causing anger or despair?

how lovely.

Sadly I'm all 9 symptoms.

I can only see that grey cloud sweeping you away from me, ******* with my mentality and exploding my reactions to the point where what I was trying to communicate became a jumble of misspoken words combined with misinterpreted emotions.

I'm truly sorry if I affect you. I'm trying. This is treatable.
Border-Personality Disorder. Everything made so much more sense after I was diagnosed. Sorry if this is written poorly. I haven't written in a while just wrote what came to mind.
pineliquor Aug 2020
the process to describe
the contour and substance of air
is now redundant, hence meaningless

(its lack of practicality
determined its void of meaning
and shall now be buried in the earth,
along the direction hinted
by dozens of pointing fingers)

moral or immoral, such a framework
has put a lock on this collapsible
black swallowing hole, and added,
in postscript,

this here is a black hole,
an expression of observable,
diagnosable,
not so much treatable,
sickness which undermines
a certain validity of the carrier

as if, the muscles of the safety net
are torn into bloodied strings of flesh
and in there a voice declares with clarity
that the weak must die.

punches, soft as sticky rice *****
a brain filled with cotton and confectioneries
never could arrange bony hands to get
the recipe right
for a makeshift bottle of glass

before the head clears enough to think,
you rot in the field like fruit
lets not put social darwinism on the dinner table

Apr 14, 2020

— The End —