Long Mental illness Poems
Long Mental illness Poems. Below are the most popular long Mental illness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mental illness poems by poem length and keyword.
The winding roads weave in and out
Through the thick murkiness of my mind
Molass density permeates this soupy blackout
Opening the door for foggy convoluted whimsy
A marginal lucidity that’s delicate and flimsy
A menacing daze to which I am resigned
On the threshold sitting so precarious
I waver uncontrollably with wits amiss
Of a mind gone off track and delirious
Vile visions born of darkness whirl inside my head
That they might escape is what most I dread
Those shadowy creatures that umbra nights dismiss
Read on air by invitation ~ June 22, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on January 4, 2019 for contest RHYME TIME 7- DEEP AND DARK sponsored by LU LOO - RANKED 1ST
Three years deep into freedom
And yet perhaps as tied down now as I was then
Scars are scars because they do not vanish
Fade as they might, that skin is numb forever
As a being made of scar tissue
My arm and back are dulled to this new world
Perhaps my brain and heart as well
As cortisol is as potent as any blade
I once thought it would be over that night
That when the credits rolled, the story would be completed
But do we ever wonder how characters feel
Once their plots are complete and they must go home?
Life goes on after the credits roll
We pick up the pieces left behind and build something new
A shelter from the strong winds and driving forces
That led us on our hero's journey to begin with
So the scars you inflicted on me remain
Where old haunts and new vistas
Can be smeared and tarnished so easily
As a flash of gold appears and pulls a trigger
A simple sandwich in an ancestral cave
A seed-studded outlook witnessing long-passed wars
Your specter haunts the depths of my vision
As a permanent reminder of what once was
It's easiest to remember the good times
Where even in the depths of despair
Any golden rope could serve as a permanent waypoint
To huddle and form a shield against the cold
It's no longer the case
Happier memories are now stained with ice and gray
And even after three years
I have not advanced much further beyond where I was
I've barely noticed the years passing, to be honest
Whereas every day with you dragged so slowly
They all merely blend together now
Empty and clear
Thus words fail me more than ever
As gathering the same desperate drive to be happy
Becomes harder and harder to do
I have ascended to zero from a sea of negativity
Serotonin was returned to me
By a dashing warlord atop a frozen hill
Not altering my mind to fill it with false happiness
But rather unlocking parts of it I hadn't used it years
So I await the effects
Can I fade these scars so well that even I'm convinced?
Or will this terrible portrait you painted on my neurons
Be the subject of viewer adoration forever?
A frightened boy struggles to cope,
filtering tears real life contains.
And scavenging for scraps of hope,
he slowly sifts through love's remains.
Fetal alcohol syndrome
warped the mind of this loving soul.
And placed within a foster home,
he paid an exorbitant toll.
He sorts lies from half-truths each day,
but he still manages to have fun.
For scary thoughts are wished away,
moving past what can't be undone.
Because his darting eyes offend,
he tries to avoid anger's gaze.
And reaffirming, you're his friend,
tests his welcome, a thousand ways.
The mind of a child guides this man,
and emotional pains stay fresh.
But, striving to be all he can,
scars of yesterday fade on flesh.
Often abused for fun and gain,
facing fears, he rises above.
And despite his anger and pain,
his lonely soul searches for love.
He's a ray of light in my heart,
he only wants to be my friend.
And close to me, yet worlds apart,
asks "How you doing?" without end.
(Quatrain)
3/1/2017
I would wake up, dazed.
And maybe a little curious.
Wondering why I was just panicking.
Is it because I’m alone in this room?
Or because I’m surrounded by all the people just outside this room.
Yes, I’m slowly being surrounded.
But I’m safe if I keep that door closed.
It’s as if I’m creating a force field around my room.
One that is putting pressure on the door, preventing it from opening.
Yes, that makes sense.
But I wasn’t prepared to hear a knock.
A disruption.
Oh, she’s just saying goodnight.
As long as she doesn’t open the door…
I can continue my panicking in peace.
Harsh sunlight simmers my arm to redness,
Poplar leaves rustle and pixilate,
Seen through his view point it’s a lit screen,
Sending him signals and refracting back
His own thoughts, emotions and subtle commands.
He tracks his fingers through greasy locks
And I see the muddy smears on his ankle,
Maybe from a walk or the root vegetables,
He scatters about his flat, beetroots beneath the bed
Parsnips under the sink and shattered mirror.
His forearms are bare, white thick lines cross
In uniform patterns up past the elbow.
He can feel something, inside the neurons,
Scrambling the chemicals, reacting and flowing
Down his arms, he demonstrates rubbing his hand
Up and down the length of his delicate arm.
But it’s stuck somewhere, the chemicals are lodged
Somewhere in the blood and need to be flushed out,
It could be, it must be, seething below
The surface of his skin, he feels it there writhing.
His eyes fall heavy downwards,
Deep opaque amber and he’s squinting at me
Pain crumpling his face like a puppy,
Kicked in the guts.
“It’s better, I’m better.”
His heart shimmering and translucent, it could burst
Through with its desperate beating,
The alchemy of dread and panic,
I see the heart bulge,
His phantom chemicals blocking it up.
His hands hang by his sides as we say goodbye,
Wanting something to hold,
But we’ve nothing to offer but appointments,
A free gym pass, a bus pass and a chat.
He walks into the midday sun,
Leaves quivering,
Chemicals surging the brain.
A stick figure in black,
Stumbling on.
I can feel my brain wrecking.
I have ways of checking.
A quick check, what could it be?
The door, the window, whatever I see.
I always find new ways.
So certainty follows me throughout the days.
Never wandering and always patient.
The power of checking is heaven sent!
Checking as I march along.
Then feeling unsteady, the feeling is strong.
There is no weakness in feeling dizzy.
It’s good to keep busy.
Checking the zipper on my backpack.
Checking the residue of my snack.
There’s nothing embarrassing about crying outside.
But I need to go home, I need a ride.
I have a feeling my house disappeared.
Because I didn’t check my pockets while my eyes teared.
Seek Shelter.
I’m in a winter coat. In my home. And the doors are locked. And the lights are dim so that I can see their shadows if they come for me…
I haven’t had a drink in hours and I might die of thirst before they get me, but I feel better staying put. I feel better in the thirst.
Seek shelter. Seek shelter. Seek shelter.
Blaring, and I’m quiet and trying not to shiver because…
They might have heat or movement detection.
Seek shelter.
I’m in the shelter. There is no other shelter, can’t they see!
My home used to be my shelter…
The door opens.
There is no escape. The shelter was the escape. The shelter was the plan.
They know my name but they sound familiar-
Like my mom or something.
She went to the store.
And her imposter has returned.
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.
You have been carrying more than you ever admit
haven’t you
The quiet weight
the long nights
the way your heart keeps breaking
yet somehow keeps going
You think no one notices your trembling hands
your tired eyes
the way you hold yourself together
even when you feel close to falling apart
But I notice it
And it matters
Because the fact you are still here
means something
It means you have not given up on yourself
even on the days you swear you have
Hope is not loud
It does not burst through the door
or call your name
It is a small stubborn ember
a flicker in your chest
that refuses to go out
And it is still there
Right now
Even if you can not feel it
So breathe
Let this moment be the one
where you realise you are not broken
you are becoming
And the world has not seen
the best of you yet
You may—I might—theywill—some ‘won’t’—just say:
“Living’s a walnut begging to be cracked!”
And if-or when-but why-sosoon-the impact
of such a soundstatement will hardly weigh?
on the forget- fret- fear-ful kind of gray
dispositions who dwell on the abstract
(no)tion of (this)regard or a(n/a)tacked
self sobbing in the corner of the day.—
Re—again—jected once one final more,
such spirits spurn the sense ‘security’,
to cling to cleaner, more clearly bonded
couplets.
But who when where better (core)responded
to that desperate pre-immaturity,
else than the ever further distant shore?