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I don't need drugs. My brain is drugs.

Maybe it's a side effect of a mother that dropped acid for the first trimester of pregnancy and then some.

Maybe it's a side effect of the abusive step father that told me I would never amount to anything and that I am *******.

My brain processes things at about a hundred miles per hour. In conversations I am always three steps ahead of what ever was said last. I make connections in things that are unconnected.

They tell me this is adult ADHD. They tell me I should be proscribed a pill to help my brain focus.

But focus isn't what I want. Nor is the drowsiness that comes with Lorazepam, the fog that goes with Prozac. I have been separately proscribed these things without ever filling the bottles.

But I fear that if I fix all my chemical imbalances, my medical maladies, that I will disappear into a fog.

Who am I without my OCD, without my brain over processing, over loving, over caring. Without the pain in my chest from another panic, my bouncing off the walls and singing to myself.

Maybe I am unwell.

But who am I without my unwellness?
It's 3am and I can't sleep so yanno. Questioning the universe
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2017
~~~

~for Leandra from Alabama~  

hope is less a point,
more a sash,
a honorable stripe, a path,
a tightrope designed for slipping,
a struggling, indeterminate journey
requiring a self-granted passport


<|>

long ago, time ago,
when the plate of despair,
was passed round and round
my table unceasingly,
served always piping hot,
my unordered,
but can't be refused,
'main course'
~
yes, I took it,
some say,
thrived on despair,
as despair
symbiotically
thrived on me
~
my unfair share
some say,
was given more
than deserved,
so what,
you took it and cried out
so what
~
so for
forty years wandered in
an unemotional desert of distress,
from which escape
to hope
was deemed,
inhumanly impossible
~
now in my descending, trajectory finale,
years post the wastage, the waste of ages
that sustained, that pain,
sent away, postage prepaid,
no return address
~
once more,
I accidentally taste
the cries of
les enfants terrible,
here @ HP,
the babies speaking so easy of

the utter aching of the young

for it is in plain view,
in almost every other poem here stored
~

I thought:

no mas, no more,
I ne'er, can't,
stop, nay, even slight stop, stoop,
to read and bear
these slights, these desperations so loud,
that remind me too well
of my days of unwellness
~
but one, ******,
renders me, strips me asunder,
drags me down under,
compulsed to respond,
so I tender now
to whomever can read
through mine eyes,
hard bought wisdom of seven plus decades
~
before you can believe in hope,
and its prophecies,
know this:

hope is less a point,
more a sash,
a honorable stripe, a path,
a tightrope designed for slipping,
a struggling, indeterminate journey
requiring a self-granted passport
~
but with the understanding that this
hopeful trip is
itinerary, devoid,
for final destination,
in advance, already well known,

for from the very beginning,
the self-same place you began,
a circuitous, lapping course of
expectorating unexpected high speed crashes,
for the ****** of self voyaging
upon the sea war-waters of
self-examination
is both
infinite and finite,
this traveling travail,
this trip is the work
forever in process
~
Hope
is your only cargo that time cannot decay, spoil,
even under twenty fathoms of brine,
cannot be refused,
must be transported
~
you gotta believe in
yourself,
you just gotta,
accept that the mere breathe of thought,
confirms the unique, unbelievable spark
the worth of you,
that source code unique,
born and then borne within,
to find your purpose,
only recognizable by you,
its place holder
~
dig as deep as necessary,
but no quitting, till you are smoking
hot, bonfired, cause that's how you can knowingly
know you've grasped that you are,
hopefully
just that much closer to being a
mission accomplished
~
hear you say,
so easy to say
so hard to do,
in brief,
there is no relief
~
let's walk together,
amidst woods and shaded country lanes,
grasp arms in the certain serenity,
of my poet's nook,
sit beside me,
young ones
~
leave your castle, cross the dry moat
so assiduously you built,
dug out from daily anguish, crapped-on dirt piles
~
come listen with me to
Bach's Air Sarabande,
you know it, though you think not,
journey upon the music
to the places so so patient waiting within,
where soaring, is the only option,
calm reflection, the only language
~
come let us reason together,
help you to deduce,
process the conclusion inevitable,
your very aching implies
your residual
crushed but uncrushable belief,
in relief,
in the inevitability of
hope
for you are worthy
~


July 11 ~ 22, 2015
posted at last, on
Sept.20, 2017
Reach out here, anywhere,  let's walk and talk together.  Been sitting in my  files and... today, it came and asked,
Please, release me!
~
https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiElOWWzrTWAhUi6oMKHdA_BK0QtwIIKDAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D-ZEgYptdjCU&usg=AFQjCNH48BJ71Z-dtF9Zi4MlkyL55QfM8w
Alan McClure Sep 2016
You wear your presence lightly,
you politely undermine it
for the folks who'd find it fright'ning
in the normal daily grind
You are jocular and flighty
wear a self-effacing grace
although your shoulders might be mighty
were they not so undermined

We met at a rehearsal
for an amateur dramatic act
to shrink the universal
to a comfortable size
They took a work of genius
the timeless peerless grandeur
and they whittled it to meaninglessness -
There I caught your eye.

"I hear you need a drummer!"
you intoned in toffee baritone
and sad, diluted Shakespeare
did evaporate tout suite
"We're gigging in the summer!"
I replied in my delight and then
I knew I'd found a friend
who might just help me keep the beat.

I found you were an artist
of broken, brittle beauty
who believed an artists' duty
was to challenge and defy
Who had washed up in the genteel
artists' village of Kircudbright
where the art is safe and snooty,
boats and trees and sunny sky

But your canvas is elastic
is electric and eclectic
as you drastically cast an angry
eye across it all
Any prettiness is sitting
on a nauseous unwellness
where the skeleton of Elvis
boogies by a butcher's stall

Well we found some fellow feeling
in our mutual defiance
casting darts at art and science
and amusing just ourselves
Made some music, sank some bevvies
wrote a book, got raging drunk
but what we managed withered, shrunk
by what we planned and simply shelved.

Well it seems that I've been hoping
that our business was unfinished
that our plans were undiminished
by the passing of the years
That some catalyst would manifest
and shake us into action
dissipate the dull distraction
of the daily hopes and fears.

But it seems that you are leaving
that your talent, brightly blazing
and the fact that you're amazing
has been missed by this wee town
Well I undersand it, ******
but I'll miss you now, my brother
and the tumbled jumbled colour
that you spun from Solway brown.
the wallflower Feb 2018
My immune system is ****
Although , so is my mental system
Everything about me is ****
Even my head feels full of it
Screwdrivers are being impaled into my temples
My breakfast is making its way out of my body through my mouth
The lights in the room seem as bright as the sun
All sounds are heightens to oblivion
And i'm angry , irritable
" Sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head "
My migraine is quite annoying right now
(alternative title - Hew Seep What Chew Roe)

After drafting previous poem describing effort
to brainstorm (grossly analogous to draining
a swamp), expound, and incorporate avast ga
mutt of threads into fabric when literary in spur
ration most profuse (temporarily exempt from
anxiety, famished and fully rested, perhaps not
necessarily in those exact words nor alphabetized
order) post anorexia nervosa (minus bulemia),

this faux south paw aimed, and beastily strove
to be a two ****** ham handed, double barreled
eating machine way beyond where I could stow
mach, one more forced mouthful of food into
gullet forsaking comfort (at the expense of former
starvation), nonetheless robotically, obsessively,
mechanically knocked worst, imaginary transcept
posts, when unwittingly, ignominiously, and

defiantly disobeying crossing guard (steepled
finger hut arc). Intolerably excessive caloric intake
compensation sans zero sum game when meal time
rolled around. The deliberate refusal to eat (purpose
fully attempted to disappear) undermined requisite
nutriments. Upon supposed recovery from restraining
necessary sustenance, the deficit attrributable depriving
prepubescent body of necessary food attempted

to be counter acted via stuffing my measly under
sized physique way past stated satiation. Despite
feeling sick to the stomach (yet luckily no instances
of regurgitation occurred), a reflexive gorging ceased,
when every other person in the household, (or visiting
friends of parents nobody but this poor soul) remained
painfully pushing forkfuls or spoonfuls of this, that
or other ample menu item. This aha awakening asper

obsessive compulsive disorders prompted loosening
mental restraints, and avoid perfecting burst of
awareness until complete with the epistle. That com
ment mentioned because no intent arose to dash off
another writing assignment. A goal of one missive a
day (to keep...what? Ghosts of past away perchance),
I discipline with some degree of tolerance. Rather
than feel fixated and fanatical (indicative of refraining

from adequate eats, or forcing self to take an excessive
number of platefuls), I accept that maybe some deficit
of energy, a bout of minor unwellness, or fatique means

that obeisance to thee ****** temperament must
be accepted. That philosophy also applies to passions
of exercising and reading. Although a natural euphoria
usually experienced during and/or after the self crafted
routine (best attempted as an natural aide to assist sleep,
which utilization of two ten pound dumb bells alternating
every other late evening with jogging/marching in place.

If you wanna a good laugh, I could possibly rig up some
precarious getup to create a short youtube blog. Until that
time just envision a middle aged older mwm bee bopping
in with the rhythm of music (usually fm 102.9) – soft
decades old rock and roll tunes. Information gets triggered
as of this moment, whereby regular efforts to publicize
the life of one ordinary older chap fuctions therapeutically,
holisitically, cathartically plus an unknown reader may

invisibly share a bond (even if she/he stock key) pertaining
to quandary written in a fashion much more under
stand able than usually the case. Impossible to
categorize style, yet each screenful of purged
sentiments, a sifting how to express emotions, ideas,
thoughts, et cetera seems to settle, akin to a capped jar
of blended tiny pieces of matter, whereby specific gravity deter
mines how lightest to heaviest particles settle according
to unwritten precepts of chemistry and/or physics.
John Reilly Sep 2017
You're off
Key
Clearly off
Kilter
Drunk
On yourself
A bottomless
Unwellness
Which you
Have fallen
Down
But I'm
Not falling
For it
You're not
Safe
You
Have made
Me
Out
To be
A monster
Not to be
Trusted
Who can't protect you
From the fact
That you need me
Now
But I
Cannot protect
Myself
From your
Past
Or my future
Let alone
Protect you
From what
Should have been
Left well enough
alone
That's what we
Are
It's
True
It's traumatic
It's triggering
And you are
Holding
The gun
abby Apr 2016
Love was meeting for the first time and asking her for a dance
Love was sitting on the bench in the park when you didn't have money for a movie
Love was being young, wild and free
Love was showing her off to all your friends who wished they could be you
Love was letting yourself go and letting her in
Love was getting up in front of your whole family and giving her a ring
Love was scared
Love was exciting
Love was the big wedding day
Love was the hot sun and deep waves of the honeymoon
Love was buying your own home in an unfamiliar town
Love was beginning new careers
Love was creating two daughters
Love was creating a son
Love was dealing with sickness and unwellness
Love was celebrating holidays and new years
Love was making memories around the world
Love was finding alone time in the midst of chaos
Love was getting through losses of loved ones
Love was finding comfort in spirituality every Sunday
Love was appreciation
Love was growing up
Love was working all day everyday without having the time to say how are you
Love was stressed over all the broken pieces of the past
Love was fighting over who knows what and who knows why
Love was yelling at 2am
Love was trying to connect with her even though she pushed you away
Love was another woman
Love was another man
Love was crying
Love was hurting
Love was realizing that love was not the same

Love was leaving
"I have my mother's mouth and my father's eyes; on my face they are still together." - Warsan Shire
Hoop fully adequately explains
source of odoriferous dry rot,
ye possibly smell, I jot
within this reasonable rhyme
without putting Johnny on the spot
my absence NOT attending fellowship,
today December 20th, 2020
albeit remotely, cuz off to bathroom
I frequently needed to trot.

Athwart porcelain goddess
at aforementioned date
bare with me rear ***** talk,
I profusely apologize
concerning offal topic
wasting proctology boilerplate
nevertheless, quite a disaster
concerning mine excretory freight
said irritable bowel syndrome

necessitated I hydrate
and fast, thus yours truly
spent no time to judicate
nor analyze why ******
severely overactive of late,
but aside from
lower gastrointestinal discomfort,
I also experienced linkedin symptom
namely upset stomach felt nauseate.

The power of mind over matter
slowly emerged inside anguished pate
physical unwellness across entire body electric
essentially, laterally, and unstintingly did radiate
and sucker punch ground zero i.e. solar plexus

fall out on par with mushroom cloud trait
unleashed courtesy nuclear warhead
without a shadow of doubt ability to function
even on primal level unwellness did vitiate.

Impossible mission to implicate
predilection to experience panic attack
whereby mine entire psyche did crack
blowing major fuses analogous to ENIAC.

In 1942, physicist John Mauchly proposed
an all-electronic calculating machine.
The result was ENIAC
(Electronic Numerical Integrator And Computer),
built between 1943 and 1945—the
first large-scale computer to run
at electronic speed without being slowed
by any mechanical parts.

Yours truly entertained no mood
to jump figurative gun
taking no time to think and brood
and shoot from the hip
(perhaps while partially ****)
(regarding sharing his antithetical thoughts

within break out groups)
virtual bodyguards escorting out this dude
possibly unintentionally antagonizing
listeners buzzfeeding misinterpreting
weaponizing commentaries assembled crude
easily mistaken for flak, I sincerely eschewed.
the wallflower Mar 2018
It's one thing to have suicidal thoughts
Its an entire different story to be committed to them
It's one thing to say " i'm going to **** myself "
It's another thing to actually take your own life
Every 40 seconds someone commits suicide
No single person should ever attempt to die on purpose
I know very well how it feels to want to die
To want to just disappear and be done with sadness
Nobody chooses to feel this way
They are forced , i am forced to deal with what i feel
So why am i getting **** for my chemical imbalances?
if i have no control over when they come and the power that they come in ?
It takes guts to purposely harm yourself
Which means something bigger , stronger
Is causing you to believe that this is the only way out
Everything that your trying isnt seeming to work
Which means you dug your self a pretty deep holee
And only you have the ability to get yourself out
So you need to try harder
Alot harder
Because obviously the old ways were not working
They weren't working for a reason
Stop trying to be like everyone else
Your special for a purpose
You are a beautiful painting
And you were hung crooked ON PURPOSE
Don't fall victim to your unwellness
t h e r e i s c o m f o r t i n t h e p a n i c
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.

Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.

Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.

Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,

who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,

when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula

(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.

— The End —