Best Schizophrenia Poems
"Doctor!
Doctor!
How is he?"
"Quite terrible, Miss.
He will not survive the night,
Probably not even the hour."
"What does he have?
Terminal cancer?
Pneumonia?
Cardiac Arrest?"
"No.
It is worse then all of those.
Even combined."
"Oh no!
Can I see him?
"I imagine you can, Miss.
But that's the problem.
I'm afraid I can't treat him
Since I can't--"
"Doctor! Please tell me.
I love him.
He's my boyfriend.
We have no secrets."
"Then you may wanna sit down.
Miss, I am sorry to inform you,
Your boyfriend is ailed with
A severe case of nonexistence."
Good Morning
My old friend
Nice waking up to see you again
Still doing ok?
Cause I am doing fine
Except for these thoughts,dreams and pains of mine
Do not worry over me
I will make it through
Just if you please could stop showing up out of the blue
Scaring me half to death
Along with any woman I ever met
I would greatly appreciate it
Thank you
Yes I remember back when I tried to do you in
Docs told me I could not be your buddy
You pushed my mother away
To the point it was questioned her love for me
Yet our friendship began
You took me places I have never been
To the edge of life itself and back again
Just was me and you friend
All through school I was the loser
Walking those halls 'o hell
I would never that girl amuse her
Many a boys lucky at most proms
Not me
I was home with you and five dames
For the life of me I can not remember their names
I dreamed a dream of dreams
Entering them asleep and awake
You shown me that no death was in my life to take
Or my existence had no goodness sake
Staring at me from the bottom of that lake
I swear one of these days
I will find someone
So we can go our separate ways
I am not tired of you pal
It is just I am always alone
Even in a group
With my family at home
Speaking to noone on my cell phone
Copying actors off the T.V.
Wanting to be somebody I can never be
Trying to seem normal
When I knew I was lie
But you took me and made this empty lifeless shell
So that I would not die
You saved my life a thousand times fold
Even now that I am 42 yrs old
What I can I say to you friend?
Where can I go?
That you have not shown me
Or that I do not know
So many times love came and gone
Til I just stop answering the door
I have 2 twin daughters
Whose mother used your name on court papers
For my name not to be theirs anymore
But it is ok
We never can win
Even when we do not lose
Because I was never a real person
And we were never friends
This poem is (ALLEGORY) but it is not in the *poem type* list
So I put free verse.
At first you're in a cloud. But you're not high.
The pills have sucked your dopamine dry.
Most times, you just don't want to try.
Honestly, most times you want to die.
Cast out from society
Split from their reality.
To you, the so called crazy one.
You see media as one big falicy.
They feed you the news. But you just don't bite.
So you're alone every night.
You hide away. Scared people will see the crazy in your eyes.
You tell lies to the doctor,. Yes sir, I'm fine.
But you aren't...
So you know you will never stop these pills
It will be this way for ever.
And all you can think is.
Whatever...
The story, sad.
The man, sad.
The wife sad,
The children, sad.
The diagnosis, paranoia schizophrenia.
It happened to the man when he was twenty-nine.
He had a sweet family, everything going fine.
But then this threw him out of whack.
He never got his family back.
His young wife had no idea what was wrong.
He followed voices, singing a lonely song.
His eight-year-old daughter was confused.
She kept it to herself, a bit amused.
His new baby, a boy, grew up without a dad,
Growing up without him, made this boy good and mad.
The wife who had married him and thought it was forever
Took him to court, and had his parental rights severed.
He lives alone, on days he is not the President.
On those days he lives in the White House.
He cannot go out on election years, because he is afraid of his fans and the FBI conspirators.
Everyone is out to get him on election years, and sometimes on Tuesdays on other years.
The story sad, the man sad, the wife sad, the children sad.
Paranoia Schizophrenia, a serious business.
Imagine one day everything's fine
Next day you're in a psychward with a completely differen't mind
No one looks at you the same, not worth anyones time
Imagine going from happy and full of life
To trying not to end it, every single night.
Imagine what it's like to forget who you are
an 8 hour high, a life time of scars.
Self hatred, on a whole new level
Never smiling, never settled.
cold heart, twisted mind, that's just the start.
I pray for the day the reaper makes his mark.
The closest thing to happiness I've felt in years
is when I fantasize about death, letting go of my fears.
But I will not bow down, to a substance I hate
and I definitely know this is not my fate.
one day I'll be happy and I'll make sure of that.
I am a somebody, I will come back.
In my time of misery, spent it all by myself
say I'm too far gone, but I'm from the highest shelf.
I'm a survivor, say what you want.
If these haters, spent a day in my head
I'd give them an hour, most likely dead.
A whole house aired with dust
and dark twilight at every hour,
there was a mountain— tall as rust
that made me feel a coward.
There were cans and cans on
tiled floor? More dust and dirt
on towels. As a child, I clutched my teddy
bear, while inside I lost
some vowels.
,
… Schizophrenia.. of Ego mania, wipe the slate
the human logic with no plate
its late, its late… the Master plan wipes the slate..
the logics of the human plates.
let us stash the cash of world concepts past…
pile it high in the streets.. currency of egos, many discreet..
for the human of Feud, of ego minds is void
Burn the stash of concepts past, shared of ego elites
then study of the void of Sigmund Feud,
ego mania is thus unemployed.
fly away, some glad day…
as thus we sing and thus we say,
may as well be today..
or stay…… endure the fray,
as human logics pay…
there’s a promised day..
as we few opt the new way
they fray, little by little each day
as the kingdom comes, unobserved
just a little less ego every day
seems just a little sprout, of wings about
rids the gout of ego’s sprout…
logic of which is proven…
Faith the wreath, opts not the grief…
the Precept in life of truth is woven
,
Strange dreams blend with reality. A true
Compliments toward rejection.
Haunted by
Irrational voices;
Zoomed.
Outrageously tortured. Presents
Paranoid delusions, as well as
Hallucinations. Then, consciousness;
Run, seceded. Became
Extremely dried. So
Noticeable and rapid.
Ironic, yet dramatic.
A pure self-imposed isolation.
PS: It's Still Poetry - An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry from Around the World https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09PHHCCFK/ref=cm_sw_r_awdo_navT_g_8QC919AQQNN84A8NMS9E
Violent, pure, and a mess,
Darkness roars in the presence of night.
A candle with a flame; a seer of light,
Awakens to the highest of heights,
Arises from a state of sleep,
Arises from a prison; a trap;
A thief of time that you will never get back,
A predator who learnt to burn what may wish for a return,
Of a life that offers what he had lacked.
His flame starts to grow, but his mortality will shrink.
Alive and well, but unable to think.
Fearless and holy, positive but lonely,
Darkness says, "Their hearts have begun to blink."
She wages war, a battle of sorts,
"I'll run you through with no remorse!"
She marches to Fire, conspired as a liar,
In revenge she attired from skeleton to corpse.
Fire sighs boredly, nothing lives for him.
Mind abundant as light; light that shines as dim.
Fire grabs a rope, visiting war with hope,
Darkness falls too low, as the end of sin.
The moon didn't fall.
The sun didn't rise.
And death didn't call,
The dark they despised.
However, instead,
As war travelled to bed,
Renewed, and undead,
Together they bled.
Memories
become sand full of hourglasses.
One thousand snowflakes are one thousand dead cats in the Hudson River.
Memories hurt.
They are Michael Schofield broken out of prison.
Prison is the look on your father’s face.
We had the same face. I used to remember him being younger.
Once he was James Dean going bald and with a cause.
Now he is the weeping willow pretending to be a Christmas tree.
Trees are ebony towers to admire. They take the place of hands, and lips and voices. Sometimes they can speak but only when you aren’t listening.
I hear ghosts I met a long time ago. Their voices mix like bad wine.
They have a lot to say to somebody else.
Words
were daggers but became backfiring nunchucks.
Painting mosaics is more like scribbling outside the lines.
A car with no brakes and no gas.
An automatic pistol being fired by your shadow, armed with toothpaste ammunition. Nothing adds up because math can’t help.
Lithium is the iron curtain to save the free world.
Conversations are only permitted in dolphinese in the broken dunk tank.
Words twist like ivy at Wrigley Field and taste like blood if you impede upon traffic.
Fifty two card pick up and “will you marry me” mean the same thing.
She had no words for either of me, even if I remembered.
Mirrors
are grown in fields on the dark side of the moon.
They are sold to the vain but crawl into the vein.
They shout at jet takeoff volumes.
We use them as search engines even though they don’t have Wi-Fi.
They are the jealous, condescending friend we have to put up with.
A high school dropout who prefers to lean on a wall and do nothing.
Mirrors were made to be smashed. They deserve to go to hell but never do.
They join their cousins the broken beer bottles from West End in a cozy hole
where they can make out with nuclear sludge and give birth to North Korea.
Then they can go on vacation to the beach where they grew up
and create memories that disappear.
He told me who I was and wasn’t without speaking but he was wrong.
Now he won’t look at me and neither will she.
Two-dimensionalism is bliss.
Her 'Verses on Schizophrenia' was written
while both of us were immersed in Gauguin's
yellow ocher smudging the eves in Tahiti
on a bankrupted canvas throbbing to suck pigments
each stroke ripping the foils of rustic mystery
unfolded fathoms of emotions undeciphered in her skies
eclipsing the tulips of reason,erosioned roots underneath
her gaze was thrust on an ivy stretching hands
towards quivering wind perplexed to hide somewhere
paraphrased each pulse in to the prose of dead tissues
Her 'Verse on Schizophrenia' lies on the table
A meteor crosses through the heart of a syllable
The often hurt of being her
Is sometimes more than she can bear;
It shuts its ears to voices that
Attempt to sound out care.
It blinds its eyes to other eyes
That try to see past such;
And yet it drops defenses
When it sees and hears a touch.
Tethers and chains attached to my brain
Never have I been so aware of…
Lack of control
Gnashing and gnawing on shriveled remains
Constantly aware of…
Misplacing my soul
Shrouded and veiled to cover the stains
Self consciously aware of…
Failed attempts to contain and conjole
Denying and slighting all of the pain
Seldom aware of…
Evolution into characters and roles
Clawing and clamoring for some refrain
Deliriously unaware of…
My fragile mind’s mechanisms of control
Creating and substituting; personas to gain
Self awareness…
Gone; what once was whole
Now cleft in twain
If only I could ease
your misery and pain.
And take you to where you'll
never suffer again.
Schizophrenia feels
like someone's in your head.
And I know there are times
that you wished you were dead.
To you, the boogeyman
is much more than a myth.
And sometimes, your voices
are all you are left with.
A warped reality
makes it hard to be strong.
For you're not always sure
that there's anything wrong.
You fall into disdain,
no matter what you do.
And you wonder if God
understands; your heart's true.
He was locked inside his own mind
searching for the key to freedom
that he'd never find.
Daily struggles led to addictions.
He fought the devil while he prayed to God
"tell me what's real and what is fiction."
Loneliness ate at him every day.
He wondered what he'd done
to chase them all away.
He was afraid to close his eyes
so he dare not go to sleep,
else the devil heard his cries.
His Mama told him about a savior
who could take his pain away,
so he put his faith in God
and he accepted Christ that day.
At the bottom of the bottle, he finally found rest.
Now all his Mama can do is pray,
that God had mercy when he took his final breath...
Dedicated to my son, with love, Mama