Sonnet Mental Illness Poems | Examples
These Sonnet Mental Illness poems are examples of Mental Illness poems about Sonnet. These are the best examples of Mental Illness Sonnet poems written by international poets.
If quantum mechanics were understood,
and black hole singularities, space-time,
and gravity's well swallowed in a flood,
would bend to genius effort of this rhyme,
instead, might solve a wicked delusion:
that I am Center of the Universe.
If the Bell Curve, for IQ, ends confusion,
then my so-called “godhood” status, a curse,
permits the information paradox,
a test, to irradiate my manic strain,
turning Schrödinger's Cat into a fox,
collapsing my wave-function to Planck domain.
What now remains, is for me to theorize:
will this strange rhyme win me a Nobel Prize?
I lived once in a land before the light
where shadows ruled and terror was the king
Sable dark did fall upon me every night
and flittermouse did brush me with their wing.
There was no day to shine away the fear
so terror ruled, malignant, endless black;
eyes closed or open, demons still appear
and, as in life, to stab me in the back.
Darkness in my head, darkness in my soul,
and in them both, the devils now reside;
what little left of me has lost control.
Or did they simply ask, and I complied?
I still live in a land without the light;
where I can’t tell the daytime from the night.
Bullies exude a malevolent force
And victims suffer their mean hellish toll
What is their ultimate unpleasant goal?
Are we their punish-for-pleasure resource?
It’s more than their world’s an OCD course
Where we’re just glass marbles that they can roll
They’re addicts who relish life as a troll
Like unwelcome Vikings from cold lands Norse
These predators think they’re on a high horse
They spit out the meek into a waste bowl
Without love for those who possess a soul
They from humanity themselves divorce
When persons with power have a kind heart
Acts gentile and sweet might set them apart
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?
If the Muse bolts from me, I'll love her more
still and pen heartfelt songs of forlorn rhymes;
yet, I'll still wilt within internal climes
of gloom from her forsaking me before
I empty her spirit, for I've sometimes
gone to cruel lengths to dash her gentle heart.
So, having erred, the consequence for art,
and ingenious meters, thus makes betimes
my Muse's faithfulness to then depart
(from me). To shortly beg her forgiveness,
I take my medication, lower my stress:
renew my efforts to make a fresh start.
For my patient Muse, a Pierian empress,
inspires my dark, bipolar mind's fitness!
Who knows who are the casualties of war?
Are they the wounded, maimed, and all the dead?
Who counts the orphans, widows, those displaced?
The untold truth, a light on this can shed
I also am a casualty of war
My soul is wounded by the grief I see
The war is raging here inside my head
I am held hostage, longing to be free
Survivor guilt is ravaging my nights
The blast of bombs, a morbid wake up call
Though I'm alive, I feel so dead inside
Like those cut down by hate, I take a fall
Destructor's cravings are insatiable
The sites destroyed include those of my mind
My tears pour down with that of martyrs blood
Like refugees, a haven I must find
A lesser casualty, yet I am one
This war is altering my very soul
I am ashamed to claim a numbered place
Yet war affects the country as a whole
Aggressors will not stop their rampant rage
The toll of death goes higher every day
Who counts the living dead, devoid of hope?
The shroud awaits the ones this war will slay
The casualties of war exceed belief
In Lebanon, war's reign defies relief
Eileen Manassian Ghali
The Untold Casulties of War
An extended sonnet
November 1, 2024
I walk into my mom’s room, filled with fear,
As nausea is bubbling in my core.
I say nothing, it’s already clear;
I took a b’ttle of pills just like before.
Tears fall from my eyes and drip from my chin,
As screaming insults fall from my mom’s lips.
She yells, “Get in the car,” and the pr’cess begins.
She cont’nues to yell like she’s read’ng a script.
She says she’s not staying for this bullsh’t this time.
With that, she left—no “I love you,” no goodbye.
I’d never felt more alone in my life.
In the weeks that followed, I did nothing but cry.
In those three weeks, I only felt like a problem,
Reminding me, my own mom left me at rock bottom.
Nothing beats the relief I felt those nights,
Those nights where all the stress melted away,
Four nights, total peace, no w’rry in sight.
As the pills were sw’llowed, they lifted a weight.
I was happy I’d n’ver wake up again,
See my next birthday, or have a boyfriend.
I thought I would leave this world as a teen,
But I have never been more mistaken.
The days that led up to those blissful nights,
I updated my letters and went on,
With false hope I’d no l’nger have to fight,
Nothing but a dream that vanished at dawn.
No matter how much I took, it ended the same,
Vomiting in h’spital, pointed with blame.
My mind invaided with overwhelming thoughts.
I don't care, I surrender my clean streak.
I climb up the stairs at a complete loss,
And retrieve the blade that I often seek.
It hovers inches above my scarred skin,
I bury it deep and drag it slowly.
The gut wrenched feeling subsides within
Not before my arm is red and bloody
In the days that follow I cover up in shame
Let someone see I will be outcasted
No matter what, the hurt remains the same,
But i prey on the relief thats short lasted.
As I see the crimson turn white and fade,
Once again it’s time to pick up my blade.
For manic, listless, bipolar, mad souls,
the rate of solitude increases fast,
like the second derivative; to last,
velocity accelerates near black holes,
which tug light into singularity's sinkhole.
If isolation never speeds up past,
if desolation, forever steadfast,
must for eternity blast, then controls
despair all? Not so! Space-time's curvature
let's us all firmly stand on Earth's hard ground
of hope: shielded by her vaulted feature
of pure blue sky, and atmosphere all-round
this sun-bathed orb (free from mankind's nature,
this life's dismay, and gamma-ray background)!
O bipolar, harass me nevermore!
Depart from me! For Easter Sunday's here,
a comfort which transforms this time of year,
and gelds you like oxen for evermore.
O minotaur, you cursed bull! Whether more
man than beast, for you I'll not shed a tear;
away from me, fiend—never to come near!
Be gone, creature! Leave me ever the more.
So, one day, very soon I'll know new life
(though, like a captive in your hellish maze,
a labyrinth and scheme of puzzling strife,
despair, gloom, confusion, and dark malaise,
I languish like prey butchered by your knife)
as hope arrives, freeing me for endless days!
When solitude is all I'll ever know,
and the moonlight's all the friend in my world,
as winds of warmth for me will never blow;
a realm of mine to build will go unfurled!
Like a fortress, mental walls of thickness
protect and insulate my gentle nature;
hints of my manic-depressive sickness,
like my surrender to a dismal future,
sometimes show. But from time to time, the God
of angels and heaven inspires a hope
and joy that no sly trickery or fraud
can bring into being or genuine scope.
Whether in madness's hell or elation,
I find peace in the God of Creation.
time travels heavily in rousing screech
to strangle smiles from mind's untold
my waving grimace implored beseech
under shadowed cleft of chalky Wold
where lapping rays of yellowed gloss
and green clings on each blade of grass
to blanket earth in warmth of moss
for breath of steam and bite to pass
but pass is slow as minds there reel
and such the rolling hills show grace
but mountains roll inside I feel
keeping undulating lands from face
my orbit slows and shows refrain
until I circle the sun again
“To be, or not to be?” asked Hamlet's soul,
a mind transfixed between looming limbo
and life's thin, airy hold; this loathsome role,
philosophers and poets have played (though
some now sleep). Not wealth, nor the lap of pleasure,
nor thought, strength, health, youth, nor unbridled power,
nor in the feet of this poem's solemn measure,
can be found the answer: life's but a flower,
a precious gift, that lives for a short time.
Still, enjoy its frail beauty and brief glory
while it's here, for in life all that's sublime
and dark in this world is just transitory.
None can say for sure if the sleep of death
is g'ntler than life: so, cherish every breath.
A meal worm eats me like a gourd of flesh,
this slimy beast I dread; two weeks or more
until my heart's (that once was young and fresh)
a hole that brims with the plaque of its gore.
Soft-bodied, legless, and writhing, this meal worm,
like yeast that leavens a raw loaf of baked bread,
or phage that necrotizes like a germ,
consumes its host until it's thoroughly fed.
Elongated and portly, like a porcine
(a fat creature and ravenous parasite!)
with the over-sized appetite of a swine,
you threaten me with a sick, terminal blight.
But if I were the brave one, O meal worm,
I'd make a meal of you and watch you squirm!