Poetry

The ugly blackbird came back It survived I did not pound it hard enough It has come for me Its talons are sharpened, ready to repay

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.

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,

A voice echoes in my mind, I need to rehabilitate mankind, I need to contain the schizophrenic, with drugs powerful and eugenic

Having an internal working model of secure attachment from childhood is a privilege. Yes, it’s a privilege.  It’s a privilege to not carry this hole. It’s a privilege to feel you truly know who you are.

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!

Just yesterday evening they let us know you were gone Joanne the plans they made for you Did not go through The job description just did not...

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.

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

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

. . .And again: how it feels to be afterthought, embodied scribble in the Margin, and again the void of logistics. It just is.

She flies with a broken wing looking for a branch to rest on Somewhere safe to lay her head waiting for the warmth of dawn, She knows the branch that welcomes her even in the dark She’s nestled there many times to rest her weary heart,

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

Do you remember the first time you were told you were Broken, by a man with a clipboard and argyle tie?

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

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

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

My heart is full of Bipolar Regret, But thank the Lord, I ain't dead yet! I still recall the day we met, I'm glad you're in my...

If you have never dropped out of school for mental health reasons, you probably won’t cry tears of joy on the car ride over to...

I must make a true confession, I sometimes suffer deep depression. It comes upon me without warning, A darker night, a darker morning. The world seems useless, meaningless, I...