Poetry

Instead of calling me "mentally ill" Call me beautiful Instead of mentally ill call me capable, meaningful and real Call me mentally ill if you must but call me responsible

Fear is running our lives. Fear of being different. Fear of being inadequate. Fear of being not good enough.

Didn't know I was in trouble, When I fell into, Your chemical embrace, But now I can see, When is all said and done, You’re a chemical disgrace

A secret city exists in your mind, where left brain and right brain bind. In the center of your eyes, but hidden behind, where your consciousness is aligned. The source of awareness for mankind

Schizophrenia, to me, is nothing more than a word. All it really means is that you experience psychosis on a regular enough basis that it’s a factor in your life. And that you actually do, as the word “schizophrenia” indicates, have a mind that you share with some sort of outside presence.

she is the one that i want the one that i love she fights for justice like a wild cat fighting for her cub fangs and claws because freedom is everything

At times my vision is shallow and short-sighted as I see my loved-one cope with the challenges we label mental illness. At times through shallow eyes I see a future stunted, my loved-one's possibilities not fully realized.  ...But then I look deeper. ...There I see unnecessary expectations created by me, held by me, and fully releasable by ...........me.    

I found meaning where it was all along in the living of this moment the breathing of this breath the pictures in my mind in my view of the world

With dust of revenge, nabbed Light up the night The windows will ignite the world Because the poets will come back

To be beautiful. What is that? What does that mean? Size two, toned, tan, and ready and waiting Ready for what? Waiting for who? The prince charming promised in all...

This is neither fact, nor expert advice: I am an artist, a poet, and all that may be in-between. This is neither fact, nor expert advice: Specialisms are making nonsense of sense.

A statement about grief, art, existence and “madness”

I’m peeling off the labels, The adjustment disorders, the bipolar disorder, I’m peeling off the labels, the borderline - the avoidant - the emotionally unstable personality disorders. I’m peeling off the labels, to find ME, MEEEE that’s hidden.under.all.these.labels!

After 25 years of chronic emergency, 22 mental hospitalizations, a stint at a “community mental health center,” 13 years in a "board & care," repeated withdrawals from addictions to legal drugs, and a 12-year marriage, I plan to live every last breath out as a survivor, an advocate, and an artist.

I need to be loved, As a child, Who will never be left, I need to be loved as a woman, There's an empty hole, In my heart that needs to be filled

I bring a small basket of flowers for my friend in the psych unit, the nurse buzzes me in. She silently yanks the plastic card-holder, then chides me, It has a pointy end. My friend tells me later, “No one gets flowers here.”

The doctor is calling. She says to you, without saying, tell me what I want to hear, verify the hastiness of all my generalizations, the quick imprecise diagnoses and the bias-based confirmations,

Sighted through your pinhole spectacles: the mystery of consciousness; the timid eccentricity of suffering.

It hurts, the medicine, which turns you into a robot, taking away your power to question, bringing you to silence   But the greatest pain of all is not to be...

I won't be The right type Of victim. I won't be the Quiet type Of victim.

A rant dedicated to all “seniors” in geriatric wards and nursing homes we’re sick     we’re stuck     we’re fucked we’re labelled     we’re libelled “demented”      “incompetent”

The wind howls across the spine of shale and abraded rock ridgelines where Sentinels stand tall in the twilight, Gods watching the story of the desert night unfold.

I am quite insane, I speak in rhyme that often doesn't, expecting to find reason. I live in a world of ritual and season.

“You are sick. You are unwell,” said the man in the white coat. “No rational person believes 9/11 was an inside job. Alas, You are a very sick man, and we are going to make you well. We can cure you. We used to burn witches, yet we’ve grown more Sophisticated in our methods. Now we leave the body intact - but not The mind. Look at what we did to Julian. No one can escape us.”

The professionals act like the theft of half my life was no big deal because they didn't mean to.