To bow at feet divine, yet feel the weight/
Of every fault, each sin he does dictate/
A love proclaimed, yet fire awaits below/
In sadistic trials, our fate does show/
A tyrant's rule, a dictators scheme/
A mind consumed by power, it would seem/
In psychiatric terms, a narcissist plea/
A God who craves our praise, eternally/
If love so pure condemns to fire's embrace/
One questions this divine, omnipotent grace/
A paradox in words, where love and wrath/
Seem intertwined on a narrow path/
Communistic echoes in divine decree/
Where worship is forced/
And freedom can not be/
A kingdom not ruled by Democracy/
But by iron hands of theological tyranny/
The question lingers, in the silent night/
Can love be true/
When governed by such might/
In the quiet, darkened corners of the mind/
Where shadows stretch and twist, emotions bind/
Lies a land where peace is hard to find/
Admist the chaos, stress leaves us blind/
Psychosis weaves it's tale of fear and doubt/
Illusions bloom, and reasons fade out/
The world distorts, perceptions fall askew/
A fragile grip on reality breaks through/
Voices whisper secrets in the night/
Haunting dreams take away the light/
Innocent thoughts become monstrous and cruel/
And reason slips away, like water from a pool/
Stress, restless, tightens it's fierce embrace/
Driving heart and mind to frantic pace/
Seizures strike, like lightning in the storm/
A body's plead for peace, a soul's reform/
The breath catches, gasping, panic fills the air/
The struggle, gasping, drowning in despair/
Yet heartbeat steady, blood pressure remains/
A mystery that defies the body's claim/
Admist the tumult, seek the gentle touch/
Of understanding hearts that offer much/
For in the sharing, healing can begin/
And in the darkness, light will surely win/
So to my doctor, these words now impart/
May empathy and care guide their way/
To help find solace, and brighter days/
In a World where mirrors lie/
And falsehoods find their stride/
The Narcissistic wanders by/
With grandeur in their eyes/
A veneer of charm and grace/
A smile that's falsely sweet/
Behind the mask, a hollow space/
Where empathy is in retreat/
Entitled to the highest praise/
They bask in admiration/
But challenge them, sparks will blaze/
A storm of retribution/
For in their realm, they reign supreme/
A fragile crown they wear/
When faced with a no answer/
They will plot and scheme/
Revenge laid bare, beware/
They'll spread the whispers, twist the truth/
A smear campaign begun/
To tarnish those who dare rebuke/
Their vengeance never done/
So guard your heart, be firm and wise/
Set boundaries, stand your ground/
The Narcissistic grand disguise/
In truth, is lost, is lost unbound/
They seek the world to kneel and bow/
To fuel their empty fire/
But look beyond the surface now/
And see their true attire/
In recognizing what is real/
We break illusion's hold/
The essence of their dark appeal/
A tale that's often told/
When the devil comes
For you
He will be in disguise
To take you by surprise
And free you from
God’s defenses
Trick the trust
You have in your senses
The devil he cheats
Wins your trust by deceit
Rachel Marchand
I need you to understand
When i come for revenge
The only question you need comprehend
Is whether I will give to you
What you did not give to me
The opportunity to fight back
A tireless showcasing of deranged energy,
Nearby grasses his sworn enemy:
A stern warning to the green vegetation
About kindling it, no hesitation:
Enough excuse for mother to drown in a pond
Or begin to deny a maternal bond…
A continual patronage of disjointed vision,
Often summarized as Dead Confusion,
As others keep challenging Modern Computer
And enduring lines conceiving like Luther.
A psychiatric could kill for justice
And down turn every offered armistice,
Some of his co debaters Alerted Ghosts,
Precariously perching on close-by posts…
A punctured mind enviable makes sanity,
Forever enjoying the approbation of Humanity.
The Psychiatric Patient
Driving home from the shops I do not walk around anymore
I noticed despite the winter is holding us like victimized Palestinians,
a thaw, the flowers and weed by the wayside looked more erect
like they were ready to let their virgin hood go - ok I know about
the bloody bees, my friend the eminent poet, is deeply concerned.
Clive, used to be a psychiatric nurse and always strive to be normal
lest you think he had had been a patient.
The beginning of spring is here new life is coming so despite Trump
the man, who escaped the asylum, we will prevail.
The pen screams sounds,
that sets the mood.
The hand goes down,
and starts to move.
My mind begins to empty out,
what it feels my soul must shout.
The readers eyes begin to see,
the feelings held inside of me.
Doctors cost the pen is free,
and meets my psychiatric need...
My poetry has lent
more emotional benefit
than any psychiatric intent.
I bled on blank pages
during all my ages,
recording heart stages.
Paper is the mirror
showing me clearer
as therapy overseer.
Charcoal clouds
thunder heavy rains-the glowing eye
of New Mexico's sky
is bandaged,
cushioned with silver. Drops of rain
slide silken
down her wrists
mixed with red colors of sunsets
in June,
as is the month in her mind.
October is black;
September yellow gold orange,
the month of her birth is green
with white- grey
mixed in as stripes, curving like the road
she lost herself on.
The Moon rises
with the evening star,
night suns.
Visit New Mexico,
view the skies- diamond cut nights
and sunsets
spread colors
expanding like the universe.
A sky writes her poem,
flinging
her winged soul
into fresh air startling,
a flock of birds
taking off, soaring.
It is dewy softness suspended,
after the rain.
The colors are rainbows reversed
or upside down...
Attend to the new patient
Give me the vacine to help this
boy
Stop that crazy lunatic from
escaping
Get the patients food to eat
My brother is the psychiatric
boanergy
With loyality, he uses all his
energy
At times his cry turns rhythimic
elegy
Yet. He never stop being the
boanergy
Working at the quaratine
Is enough to make the brain fry
Into a ball that will occupy a tin
But my brother continued to the
"I will never quit
In as much a have the
necessary kit
To make my occupation fit
Then I will always leave my sit
To attend to the outfit"
ANOTHER PSYCHIATRIC SUCCESS
Man feels guilty, thus Man feels bad :
conscience halts “pleasures” to be had.
Psychs seek cure - Man must not feel bad,
with drugs remove what make him sad.
Good, lucky Man is free from guilt :
no shunning of what shouldn’t be built.
He’ll use base feelings such as hate
to revel in his psych-made state.
Oh happy Man, let it all hang out,
you’ve been ill-treated, there’s no doubt -
go get revenge, go get your gun,
go get plenty of psych-fuelled fun.
Go shoot kids in a blameless school,
they won’t ever call you a fool.
As shots hit home, watch them all run,
thanks to the psychs, Man’s having fun.
Now he’s the target ? ‘Why target me ?
I’m only on a guilt-free spree.’
Those bastards’ guns, they won’t kill him,
one shot to head, success, psych’s whim !
Alan McAlpine Douglas
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