Poetry

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.

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.    

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

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

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.

This thing that stirs can’t be overcome. It starts like a steady, aching hum

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

“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.”

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,

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...

The Hopkins psychiatrist glances up at me, then looks at my chart. “I remember the first time—and the second—when the depression lifted I felt like a party girl.” How long did that last? “A couple of days…three, maybe.” That’s a couple of days too long. You have all the signs of bipolar II.

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

Open up your jaw, In such and such. A serpentine fashion. Blue pill awaits. Your trembling mouth.

Why little? Belittle? Do little? Do little harm! I'm wishing for a doctor who does little Little enough Enough little little

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!

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.

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

There was never “an American dream” Only a nightmare, so it seems. Such an innocent girl full of belief In a country from which she now seeks relief.

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...