Best Psych Ward Poems
I'm sitting on the floor
I'm crying so much more
trying to erase this pain
trying to forget your face
sitting here with the blade in my hand
running so slow blood dripping down
in a deep red color
flowing freely the way i want to feel
I'm sitting on the floor
holding my hand out
I'm holding a bottle
a bottle filled with pills
I'm crying so hard
the pain is unbearable
I'm feeling so weak
I'm sitting here on this floor
holding a blade
crying like crazy
trying to take this pain away
I'm trying my best trying to fight
my eyelids feel heavy
my door is so far
the whispered yells to far
falling deep in to sleep
deep..deep..deep..deep
I'm laying on a bed
I'm so confused
where am i?
my throat feels sore
my body screams in pain
I'm looking around
I'm in a small white room
i try to move,
my hands are stuck
i try to get up
i feel restraints
what happened to me?
I'm laying on a bed
trying to get up
my head hurts
a nurse is here
a shot is administered
i drift to sleep
I'm in the psych ward
why am i here?
I'm lying on a bed
laying so still
my wrists hurts to no end
I'm crying out loud
screaming and cussing
my body hurts
i can't remember
all i remember are my bloody wrists
and a bottle of pills
all i remember is the pain i was in.....
(Dedicated to all those who have died alone.)
They cannot fit, they cannot go along,
and the reasons are wide: pride, fear,
even love never tempered by time,
illness of the heart or mind, or simply
bad, bad luck: life throws them away
until they throw life away....
She was one of the gentle ones,
the unlucky ones-- a flower child
who missed her time, an era she
might have thrived in, free, alive,
unencumbered by family ties....
If she had come age in the 60's,
she might have lived into her 90's.
But lost and afraid in a cold world
not of her making, with her bird-
like heart breaking, she ate her
last hoarded apple, then lay down
to sleep and sleep and sleep until
she awakened safe in heaven's lap.
--judged NA in 'Will to survive' contest, 10/15/20--
[The poem was based on a true incident whereby a young woman suffering severe depression and paranoia was released from a psych ward without anyone informing her family; she stayed alone for weeks in an empty, unheated house in winter subsisting only on half-rotten apples she had picked up from the ground in the back yard.]
The best part of crazy is the coffee
Every psych ward and therapy office
Comes equipped with the best.
When things fall apart there are little fixes:
Black coffee.
Cigarettes.
Psych Ward.
You didn't shake
as much in
the psych ward,
possibly because
of the medication.
A cocktail of
paxil, seroquel,
lithium and sedatives.
The white walls
dimmed your
pale complexion.
The pink rosed
paintings on the
wall reflected
the first bit
of color returning
to your peaked
gaunt cheeks, and
big sad eyes.
You'd get so angry,
trying to hold back
cries...stressed
from all the secrets
of your condition that
the uniforms and
clipboards kept
from you.
We'd walk the
circular hallway.
My black work loafers
and your socks
circumfrencing the
middle ground of
sanity.
We'd hold eachother
in the corner, under
the light wood
safety rail.
You, propped up
against the wall.
Me..pressed againt
your chest.
You'd envelope
me with your
long arms and
whisper in my ear
between your tears
that this...
couldn't last forever.
A Prophecy
John Grisham was rejected by 28 publishers
Before he sold “A Time to Kill”
But because he didn’t say “What the hell”
His books have sold over 275 mil.
Maya Angelou was once a whore
But she wanted to write and sing
When haters were speaking she wasn’t listening
And in 1993 she sang before a king.
Paul Laurence Dunbar was the son of a slave
Wrote his brilliant masterpieces at the elevator door
Determined not to listen to the white man because he wanted more
Now he is an example of greatness for the writing poor.
Tyshawn Nicole Knight was once a mental case
She wrote poetry on the floors in the psych ward
But, she never gave up, she struggled and worked hard
Now she is a publisher and her writers have gone far.
If the church is a hospital,
does it have an emergency room?
Can the person with a spiritual heart attack,
get a lifesaving response?
If the church is a hospital,
is there a psych ward for the mentally ill?
Are there crayons for the scitzo to draw on the walls?
If the church is a hospital,
is there an X-ray room for broken bones?
Does it provide chemo therapy for the cancer patient?
Is there a recovery room for the alcoholic struggling to stay dry?
If the church is a hospital,
is the pharmacy always open?
IF the church is a shelter,
Does it have blankets on the beds?
Does it have a teddy bear?
Are there toys a plenty
for the boys and girls to share?
IF the church is a shelter,
does it have a home like vibe?
Or is it a cold white waiting room?
If the church is a shelter,
does it have a warm fire place?
Does a picture of Jesus
hang as a painting on the wall?
Is there a nurse on staff if I fall?
If the church was more of a treatment center,
and did not have a big X over sin...
I would find a guide indeed.
But maybe I might actually be
the helping hand someone needs.
How does it feel to be confined to a bed
Alone in a psych ward with the voices in your head
Your actions done and now you're here
How does it feel to be laying here
The lives you've destroyed but still deny
You don't fool me; An eye for an eye
Karma has a way of coming back around
Now it's your turn and you've been found
Losing the battle; your little one lost
They protect her from you at all costs
The State came in and took her away
With you no more; not allowed to stay
Your home and job is a thing of the past
Your lying and deceit took them at last
Your family no longer behind your front door
The life you had is no more
You dug your own grave all on your own
help from no one; you did it alone
What goes around comes around they say
And karma made sure; you're beginning to pay
Author: Kristin Bordelon
Mind games with my shrink.
Only giving me seconds to think.
His or my sanity on the brink.
Telling him what he wants to hear.
So these psychotic thoughts don't interfere.
I love a profession where all you do is ask questions.
I see your obsession.
Diagnosing patients.
With the power of suggestion.
Mocking once again.
Your profession.
So continue with your notes and antidotes.
On how to fix a fairy tale gone wrong.
So incarcerate me to the nearest psych ward.
At least with the nuts I won't be bored.
Your heart is in the right place but your dealing with a head case.
"When I was a kid my dad left me in a bad way .... he was
in the lives of my sisters and brothers but he wasn't in mine."
Quote by - Beth Hart
Her voice has an innate, inborn, visceral grittiness
dusty, raspy, raw with emotions of pain, aching, torment
and agony, an unstained contralto deep and low, and you
get lost in her voice, gliding on the waves of life with her
her name, Beth Hart, an American blues musician and singer
Born in 1972, Elizabeth (Beth) Hart is from California, USA
at 4 years old she played the piano concentrating on classical
music, like Bach and Beethoven but as she got older she
was playing artists like Etta James, Otis Redding, and Led Zeppelin
she has a magical voice like Janis Joplin and Tina Turner combined
As a young teen she was singing in open mic nights
and was playing clubs at fifteen, in 1993 band search she won
best female vocalist but her success went nowhere as she
became drug addicted, she spent all her winnings and hit bottom
even spent time in a psych ward for bi-polar and drug addiction
Beth has had ups and downs and she managed to have lots of hits
too many to list in this poem, but there are many hits that I fav
like LA Song, Don't Explain, Am I The One and many, many more
she collaborated with Joe Bonamassa and went on tour with him
and together they had hits, she also collaborated with Jeff Beck
Beth controls her addictions with religion and meditation now.
Joe said in an interview," I am totally knocked out by Beth. Here
is a lady who's acting like I'm the cool one and meanwhile I'm thinking
Man, she's got it all ... the next Janis Joplin . . the real deal, you know."
Random lyrics
War In My Mind
by Beth Hart
hollerin' all the time
black in my soul
and its ugly when I cry
there is a war in my soul
blood on the wall
hiding
making love to the
war in my mind
_____________________
May 09, 2023
Poetry/Bio/It's Ugly When I Cry
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1546-229-09
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Beth Hart Inspiration
sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged05/09/2023
First Place
Watching the extinction
of the paleo
as the death
calls
them
to the crank lab or product
or the prison and psych-ward.
Those that are still here
await Jeff Foxworthy
for exploitative representation
finding
Dale on the the King of the Hill
solace.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
It's a left at the gas station where the body bags were being piled up.
Then an immediate right behind the home style cooking restaurant where the lady was shot.
Pass the abortion clinic on your right.
Continue past the abandoned psych ward to your left.
Then,
When you see the church the size of a mall,
My corner is across the street.
His words were such inspiration
Handed to me on a double-bladed tongue.
It brought the sense of what I was before I let myself be changed.
From left brain to the drug game
Those times were all stepping stones that buried me under the hole
The demons from my past keep sending me the love they have for me
These things, they relate to demons
They relate to my demons
They are my demons
I wish someone knew what I was saying
I wish someone wanted to watch the storm with me
I wish I was not the only one
(that's three, it's over)
If they'd told me I'd fall for you
I'd have offered them the number
To the local psych ward -
After a sufficient Google search
To ensure they received
The proper care they'd need.
If they'd said to me,
"One day you'll look up,
And realize he's the one."
I'd have raised an eyebrow,
Pulled a thermometer from
Some poor unfortunate souls ass
And checked them for a fever.
If they'd look from me to you
And smirked like they knew something
That I didn't,
I'd have grabbed the largest sharpie
I could find in the vicinity,
And draw a *****
Directly in the center of their forehead
While they were sleeping.
If they'd told me,
"I know you don't believe in it,
But you'll come to love him."
I'd have -
Well. To be completely honest,
I'd have probably laughed in their faces,
And said something none too pleasant.
Probably would have received glares
From nearby parents.
If they'd warned me,
I wouldn't have listened.
Would have denied it
All the way to the local horse races,
Where I would have bid on the underdog,
That had never won a race -
Just to prove to myself,
That things that can't happen,
Won't happen.
But knowing my luck,
If I'd done that,
That damn horse would've won.
Sadly, if they'd said anything,
Things would end up exactly as they did.
Only the Google search
Isn't for them.
It'd be for me.
I'm still convinced this whole thing,
Where I'm feeling something
Specifically a thing for you,
Is a symptom of mental disorder.
And I'm the one with the fever.
But if I go to the doctor,
It'd just be a freaking case
Of loving you.
And that bill would just be
Another heaping disappointment
On this cake of misguided love.
I'd still draw a ***** on someone's face.
But I don't have a key to your place.
You'd better be happy buster,
Because I draw a great dick.
And you'd never get rid of it.
If they'd told me that I'd love you,
I wouldn't have listened,
But at least I wouldn't have been
Blindsided when it happened.
Social uselessness is a virtue of its own,
Those we cast aside, glance at and then away from quickly,
Lest they notice, and smell our guilt,
Are free to live immodestly,
There being no need for posturing
When one's invisible.
Trees that grow lumpen or misshapen
Are left to live long and go unfelled,
Never to be transformed into pencils and park benches.
They carry on, in love with the sun,
Spreading their arms to embrace the sky
Season upon season;
The children skip over their roots
And lovers loll beneath their boughs,
Their shade relieves the weary,
Their age comforts the old.
No carpenter's ambition
Will ever reach their wondrous hearts,
Then, perforce, transform them.
When they kick you, unwanted
Out of the hospital psych ward,
Your illness not important because you've done
Nothing to make the newspapers,
You can wander like a prophet, complete in yourself
Living your truths without needing an apologist.
So it is with those we look away from,
The odd shapes among us who don't fit our spaces.
There's more to be seen by looking between things
Than can be found by looking straight at them;
The unshaped space around us speaks with an incessant tongue
Interpretable only by the spirit.
So if you really want to slip the blindfold for a change
To see the ones hovering around the fringes,
Start by studying their shadows;
If they should deign to speak,
Listen with your eyes,
If you want to feel them,
Reach deep inside yourself and rub the sore spots
You spend the day denying.
Reflection sustains reality
Like dewdrops on a leaf.
Try to understand this like a lesson and you'll fail,
But accept it without judgement;
It will come to you.
No man finds more truth than he who looks for nothing;
This is writ upon the bark of twisted trees.
Read it, then know what wisdom is.
"It was 2 or 3 years ago
As best as I can recall
A slight chill in the air
Maybe early spring,
or maybe late in the fall
Queens County Hospital released me
on that very fateful day
I had spent my time in their psych ward
I no longer had to stay
On the day that they released me
to exit to the street
I left with jeans and T-shirt
With but slippers on my feet
But most striking I can assure you
Was the fanciful robe that I wore
Bright blue with yellow moons and stars
Comets, the sun, and much, much more
Like a demented Wizard walking
In a Fantasia audition gone quite mad
I strolled down Queens Boulevard
42 cents was all I had
Six miles to my home
I'd never walk afoot
Dazed and bewildered
All the Chinese pedestrians surely had a hoot
On the busiest street
for miles around
This demented Wizard tread
I would'a preferred to be underground
So I went and took a taxi
With no way to pay the bill
But what does one expect
From one who's mentally ill...
I figured it unlikely
for worse to come to me
"So what will he do?
return me to the boulevard
A cab fare thief for all to see?"
I made it home that afternoon
and found some money too
Paid my fare and carried on
In my Wizard's Robe of Blue."
Another true story in the bizarre life of tom bell
I studied cosmology for 4 years before I realized there was no mention of make-
up or hair styling.
I saw the movir "Superfly", and didn't understand why they never even showed a
zipper!
I wanted Lasix surgery- but, due to being stupid, I wound up with Latex surgery;
now I have "boobs".
I love movies- and had my heros- and I was classified a "copy cat". But I got tired
of the hair balls in my throat.
I'm probably the only one who considered suicide by H-bomb.
I ordered a "Blair" catalogue, expecting a book about witches.
I had a car I nicknamed "Flattery" 'cause it got me nowhere.
Ever notice that some hospitals have a "detox" ward? Does that mean that
somewhere there's a "tox" ward?
I'm a musician-I've been, for years, trying to join a "Rubber Band". Guess that's a
stretch, huh?
My house is so messy, I don't remember the color of my carpet.
I used to be a department store buyer. But I could never afford to buy stores.
I suffered from chronic pain for years. Then I got divorced.
All this talk about "role models"- boy- just go to the bakery!
I have a very high IQ- but in my case it means "Idiot Quota".
Someone once scolded me about my self-depreication. I replied-"It's better than
self defecation!"
Everytime I went to the psych ward I signed in as "Randall P. McMurphy" true!
confused? see "One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest".
Russian? I don't know, they seem to move pretty slow to me.
Napoleon Bonaparte? I don't know, I've had a number of Napoleons from
various bakeries; I never found any bones.
I guess the Nazis must'a needed a lot of underarm deodorant.
Cell phone? I don't know- seems like being in prison is hardly worth it.
If we capture Osama Bin Laden, instead of death, I'd make him watch Billy Mays
commercials 24/7. (Too gruesome to even think of!)
Jock itch is a bit_h. Glad I'm not a "jock".
Wars never end, they just change names.
I once spent a winter in my old home, alone- no heat, no gas, no phone,no
food,sometimes no electricity. Ever have your underwear frozen fast to your
body? True!!
Well, my friends, till we meet again! Here's to Soup!