Best Illness Poems
i sit lonely.
the crowded restaurant is thick with sound
i pick away at it
moving back into the stagnant silence
of my own comfort
the air is nasty here
it telepathically abuses my thought patterns
still
a far cry better
the loud hum of food
marching to the vacant crowd
suffocates me
a decorated plate joins my table
strikes a conversation with the cutlery
there is no call from the governor
as i attack my food
fork knife teeth
bites later
a paper plane flies in
a swipe of my plastic
makes quick work of the bill
i exit
seemingly quicker
than human eyes can catch
i hate this part
i parley my way through
too many bodies
all the while staring
at a concrete maze
never making eye contact
with a single soul
i do that
i always do that
keep the entrances of my being
away from those who would stare me down
attempt to engage me in conversation
with a desire to lock eyes
if they looked in they would burn
i’d be held responsible
FINALLY
home
the only environment i feel safe in
my therapist will be proud
almost an hour today
assuming i see her again
i am covered in my own dew
my breathing sporadic
i line up an array of pills like good soldiers
as i continue my attempt
survive another day
it will take hours to regain my sanity
all the while questioning the purpose
why must i assimilate
back into the dungeons
they call society
it behooves me
find one reason
join the rank and file
plug back into a horrendous grid
i had escaped
i
grow
weary
of
my
own
thoughts
ignore my voice
slowly regain my footing
plant roots
hope they’ll take hold
attempt to return
into the vacuum of my existence
i sit lonely.
My mind is a puzzle of cryptic metaphors.
whilst searching for my sanity,
I've become my own worst enemy.
In this cauldron of despair,
time is like sand in my hand -
an oxymoron poetic
paradox of cruel compassion.
Sadistic green eyes bring my demise,
as my sighs are captured by the wind,
slowly morphed into madness and travesty.
I sit alone on the throne of midnight illusions,
cursed by dark imaginations
lingering like mouldy air,
as vivid flashing images
engrave inkstained imprints.
Dripping lament from a
palette of black and white,
colouring in the emptiness of my sensitive soul.
In echoing whispers of weeping violins,
whimsical vibratos from wooden wind-chimes,
steadily orchestrate instrumental sonatas,
ringing through my strained metallic heart,
whilst I try to strum strangled strings,
harmonizing an inconsistent symphony of a tragedy.
Fate has me stranded within a monotonous loop of uncertainties,
for when twilight’s last breath piercingly eclipsed over
lyrical edges of my insomniac shadow,
it awoke restless beasts of nocturnal nights -
in nightmares I wondered does no one hear my screams?
i can see dazzling dusts of black diamonds,
drizzle manuscripts of maniac irony
translating dialects hidden behind unshed tears
that gleam like shooting stars,
as i sing mystical moonbeams,
sewn with silver sequins of euphonious memories on refrain,
chorused from nameless tunes of timeless tomorrows,
as the magic of the maestro,
residing in the highest bridge of sanguine skies,
guides these electric fears, trapped between
synchronized layers of my unsettled skin.
I'm tired from intangible tears in the mirror,
slowly sinking me in swirls of sorrow,
like a bruised creature
seeking shelter in a silk cocoon,
so this aurora's smile is no longer a masquerade.
I hunger for rays of sunlight to paint my skin
in a plethora of pastels,
so this golden bronze queen,
can once again glitter
in a crown of illuminating heartbeats.
*Had to bring this one back. Like my Poe poem, this one follows me wherever I go. It is my favorite lyric that I've written thus far. It is loosely based on a real person and deals with the issues of mental illness and homelessness. To bring it up to date, a fresh audio was recorded this evening by none other than Thomas Woodward, who will readily admit that he can't bloody sing, though he takes a stab at it during the last stanza.
Couldn't pay the rent, could you Mary?
Back out on the street, dearest Mary.
Winter's in the air/once a girl with pretty hair,
And the days are shorter now, my sweet Mary.
Where will you go, Mary Rogers?
Parks can be so cold, Mary Rogers.
Out into the night/shadows everywhere a fright,
(Tell me) where will you go, Mary Rogers?
Store clerk turned her head, will you Mary?
Run fast as you can, dearest Mary.
Cops are on the way/daddy's calling you to play,
And the gun you dropped they found, my sweet Mary.
What will you do, Mary Rogers?
Jail can be so cold, Mary Rogers.
Throw away the key/pray to God on bended knee,
(Tell me) what will you do Mary Rogers?
Stranger took you in, did he Mary?
Promised you the moon, dearest Mary.
Black eyes gave away/what an awful price to pay,
And nobody held your hand, my sweet Mary.
When will it end, Mary Rogers?
Men can be so cold, Mary Rogers.
Needles always lie/mommy's back home baking pie,
(Tell me) when will it end, Mary Rogers?
Slept under the bridge, did you Mary?
Zero Fahrenheit, dearest Mary.
Peaceful dreams hold sway/fly across the Milky Way,
No more worries for the pain, my sweet Mary.
When will we learn, Mary Rogers?
People can be cold, Mary Rogers.
Turn our heads away/it may be our child someday,
(Tell me) when will we learn, Mary Rogers?
Time to wake up now, won't you Mary?
Paradise is here, dearest Mary.
Old world passed away/it's a bright and lovely day,
And the sun shines just for you, my sweet Mary.
Silence Felled
Lurking in dark corners
The swamp stirs in the night
As the deceiver rises
Begging to share his illusions might
Only behind the veil
Does he let his murky words sail
Deceiving the lady of the house
While he runs like a little mouse
He drinks a mans ale
Then double crosses once stale
Armies can’t fight the silent one
He hides in the corners of your mind
Draw blood with your pen
Let him flow towards the hither end
The skeleton can’t do much with his quill
Stabbed of his devious will
Mara loves to steal from others
A skill well learned with no druthers
Paraphrase one word or two,
Hoping no one has a clue
Her poems formed from another's
Mara cannot hide behind her word crime
And pretending to, is a waste of time
Poems and words can be traced,
to a new plagiarism case
She needs to stop and find a new pastime
Last year, her imagination went double
so she ignored her previous schedule.
She put all her dreams inside of clear jars,
decorated with different, assorted stars.
She believed if she always kept things rounded
she would also succeed in keeping life grounded,
So, she would circle every found square
believing it demonstrated her constant care.
Plastic, colored eggs hung from her ceiling
to keep her floor from creaking and reeling.
Pale pink and bold gold stripes on her wall
recorded every received telephone call.
She worshiped and loved both the sun and moon,
but only from inside her living room.
She feared really being observed outside,
a place where stray cats were known to hide.
She always loved to dance, but during this year
she’s been dancing to music only she can hear.
All these things bring her secure nuances near,
but make her sanity less and less clear.
"Marionette of Flesh in a Borrowed Dress"
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
The hourglass,
a skeletal jester
mocks in the tomb's chill
Each falling grain an emaciated sigh,
"Soon you'll cease to be."
The mirror's cold reflection,
a Gorgon's ghastly guise
A marionette of flesh with vacant...
hollow...
colorless eyes.
The worms, like pallid mourners
watch me shrink
A marionette of organs,
cold and pale, pink.
This flesh, a borrowed dress
once sprightly
Now stained and thin
Holds tight the secrets only
death can win.
This borrowed dress,
a shroud where my story's writ
In laughter's faded stitch
and tear's accusing slit.
A map of life etched deep
with scars that mar the grain.
A raven of fleeting triumphs
a pendulum of ceaseless pain.
In the shadowed hollows
where sorrow resides
I languish.
marionettes of fate's cruel designs!
Each scratch and cut a lament.
each tear a bitter sea!
Bound by the chains of my...
limited mortality.
In this borrowed dress,
I mourn what could have been...
Lost in the convulsion of my own... sin.
I am transformed
but not redeemed.
I am drifting into the void
My spirits are shattered
and my dreams destroyed.
So in the silence of eternity
I find my rest
Lost in this body of my own...
detest.
And though this shell
a chrysalis
soon withers
and decays
I cast aside the shroud
no longer bound or worn.
Accept the endless night,
where a new self-forlorn is bourne.
Transformed
a residual relic
through the void
I fly
Suture with stardust catgut,
a worn scroll in the sky.
Can't stop flashbacks
Can't stop vibrations
Vibrations like echoes
Vibrations irritating wounds
Wounds that bleed
Wounds that torment
Torment the mind
Torment emotions
Emotions of guilt
Emotions full of anger
Anger from the past
Anger from shame
Shame that's distressing
Shame that's intrusive
Intrusive images haunt
Intrusive like storms
Storms striking like lightning
Storms louder than thunder
Thunder that's frightening
Thunder causing self-destruction
Self-destruction of the heart
Self-destruction of the mind
Mind acts recklessly
Mind reacts resentful
Resentful with regret
Resentful outbursts
Outbursts misunderstood
Outbursts they generalised
Generalised anxiety
Generalised questions
Questions of sanity
Questions of ability
Ability to stand
Ability to walk
Walk in fear
Walk through a hellish reality
Reality discarded
Reality unseen
Unseen persecution
Unseen war
War with life
War with time
Time is too intense
Time to surrender
Surrender to uncontrollable stuttering
Surrender to my misleading heart
Heart palpitations
Heart is numb flatline
Flatline
Palpitations...
Sarah’s Story - Mental Illness
Sarah, the “Crazy Lady,” was a familiar sight,
roaming the streets any time of day or night.
Her foul body odor announced her presence,
as she paraded around in her filthy, smelly garments.
Walking barefoot regardless of the weather,
in her state of mind, she couldn’t do better.
Children teased and made fun of Sarah,
reciting ridiculing ditties, adding to the drama.
Behind her a lively entourage would follow,
taunting and calling her names creating a sideshow.
They howled with childish laughter,
as Sarah hurled angry profanities after.
An avid collector of all kinds of trash,
she transformed her abode into a garbage stash.
Sarah’s odd behavior made her fair game,
to unkind people who had no mercy or shame.
While many folks turned a blind eye,
young boys threw rocks and other missile,
at the roof and windows of the shack she occupied.
Behind bushes, they would scamper away to hide,
as Sarah furiously dashed outside,
brandishing a machete, cudgel, or broom,
screaming out curses, damnation, and doom.
Like a cancer, her mental illness had devoured her brain,
and before long, she was officially "certified insane."
Most agreed it was for her own benefit,
and for the good of society to be rid of this "misfit."
But even though she was locked away in an institution,
no psychiatric treatment could cure her mental condition.
When Sarah finally died, she was unloved and alone;
her passing was hardly noticed, and she was mourned by none.
Note: This piece was inspired by a true account. While we have made great strides in the study of mental illness and understanding it, unfortunately negative attitudes and beliefs toward people who have mental health conditions are still common. Thus, as a society, we still have a long way to go to improve our attitudes and to show more caring and compassion for those who suffer from various types of mental illness.
08-06-2015
Contest: Mental Illness
Sponsor: Nathan D.
Placement: 7th
"laugh and the world laughs with you,
cry and you cry alone"
how true and sad these words once penned
for this I've learned, yet learn again
that when I bloom and smile with glee
the world and life will laugh with me
I'm not alone....never alone
the joy is not for me alone!
Yet when the demons heart possess
and come to steal my happiness
when all around is darkest gloom
and none to rescue from the tomb
I am alone.....I cry alone
the grief I bear....I bear alone!
I know your heart is bleeding too
for some have been unkind to you
and none can see the bitter tear
nor chase the goblin of your fear
You feel alone....you cry alone
but that pain you bear, don't bear alone!
Now turn to me; remember this
I know this pain, this poisoned kiss
depression has a hold of me
and this I say with certainty
though other hearts are made of stone
you're not alone....NEVER alone!
Eileen Manassian
This poem got 1265 views. You can find it here on Poetry Soup if you want to read the comments and pics I've posted with it. There's one of Robin Williams...to man who made everyone smile but cried alone. I hope you enjoy the video. I haven't been able to write in some time, so I'm posting some videos of Rhymes of the Times that I recorded some time ago. :) Enjoy
He speaks metaphorically to avoid dealing direct,
shows the unknown hand he’s against too much respect,
writes about his bravery though it’s no where to detect
or talks in the third person like this I'd expect.
Going on about himself like it’s happening to someone else,
distanced from reality his distracted mind plays stealth,
deflecting the desperation straying from his fails,
because being himself is hell with his fractured mental health.
You’d think he would try to save it but instead he stays away,
doesn’t acknowledge the slaying, writing on as if okay,
creates a situation where he has the final say,
when really just a coward putting himself on display.
He must have found comfort writing this because it's structured,
a new angle on the old tale nothing more than a distraction,
because as soon as it finishes he's back to a spineless buster,
hiding from conflict comforting another poor reaction.
How long will he go on paving this path of pathetic,
in a dangerous direction purposely neglected,
there’s the renegade he speaks of, self elected,
walking towards death being naturally selected.
But deep in this metaphor he doesn’t change a thing,
in his head it’s someone else or a tale of some thing.
To know what happens next go back where this poem begins,
now knowing what life is when your name is Nick Trim.
(A parody of the Modern Major-General's Song from "The Pirates of Penzance" by Gilbert and Sullivan.)
I am the very model of a very stable genius.
Compared to mine all others’ ...brains... are positively weeny; yes,
My grasp of science, history, and law is astronomical.
No need to read; I go by feel! (It’s highly economical.)
My sober tweets would make a truly fine encyclopedia
For fighting lies of traitors in the damn elitist media.
It’s sad how badly haters hate and treat me like a meanie; yes,
And all because I am, in fact, a very stable genius.
I see the world in black and white; hooray for monochromacy!
It shows the unnecessity of nuance and diplomacy.
No matter what I do, my fans consider me adorable;
Their loyalty to how I roll is not the least deplorable.
A win like mine (I surely could have had a clear majority!)
By common wisdom should confer a little more authority.
In short, I envy autocrats like Kim and Mussolini; yes,
I am the very model of a very stable genius.
symptom spectrum script
dosing who knows what roulette
will too strong to live
***
I rise at the center of...
Is it a room? This is a face.
There is motion, too fast, too clamorous.
Cryptic and opaque. Shapes shift
into my field of view.
Recognize! The message spoken
ends in an upward curve.
Interpret! It means a question
? ? ? ?
What to respond, when....
I get nauseous.
My body twitches, my mouth tics
I make no sound
I cannot speak.
I cast my eyes down.
Curl up, arms wrapped around self;
Rock to calm down again;
Count the tiles;
Hum Rachmaninoff.
What is this incomprehensible life?
My soothing world is filled with letters and words,
a keyboard, screen, and silent friends
They speak to me in sentences and formulas
of friendship and love...
on my screen..
I am afraid
I am always so very afraid
Once I was somewhere else
Locked up inside
My head
Once I was somewhere else
I will not go back there
I want to stay out.
As born again blossoms bloom,
who am I to wilt upon the dawn of spring,
as I can see morning robins gather
to bless me with the melodies they sing.
Their once melancholic lullaby,
disappears with every drop of rain,
in cloudless, bright blues skies,
they have sang away winter's pain.
I watch them collect fallen twigs,
nimbly, creating their new nests,
rebuilding something that was once broken,
fighting valiantly against nature's tests.
They're aware that predators lurk,
so when sunset sinks at silent twilight,
I wonder where do they seek shelter,
so they don't become prey of the night.
With philosopher eyes the mind ponders
what if birds were born without both wings.
How would they fly to freedom when trapped?
Would we still hear the melodies a robin sings?
When bewildered in the wilderness,
some slither softly, lost in melancholic motions,
submerging slowly in shallow streams,
unable to control their erratic emotions.
We are blessed with spiritual wings,
but some prefer to remain within their cocoon.
Unable to learn from the homecoming of birds,
their authentic-self, struggles to hum in tune.
In the migration of misunderstood minds,
we can become lost among unknown silhouettes,
like dead petals ignored by butterflies,
our inflictions turn us into marionettes.
Darkness will always consume our horizons,
so as I arrive upon illuminations ledge,
I revel in the belief my spirit will fly
if my foundations crumble at the edge.