Tag: poetry

The Writer has outlined a significant work through my hands, dictated by the voice of someone who lived at some point a long time ago, such as London in 1682 A.D.

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

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!

Let go, Of all that shit, That is holding you back. Let go of fear, Let go of uncertainty, Let go of anger, Let the unpredictable be just that, Unpredictable. Let go of your need for control of things you cannot control, Hold on to your truths.

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 had this idea I could join the system and change it from the inside but you can’t join the system and not join the system

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

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

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 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 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

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

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...

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

In this piece for The Paris Review, Belinda McKeon analyzes the poetry and letters Sylvia Plath wrote in the few months just before her suicide.

In this piece for The Establishment, physician Isabel C. Legarda explores the possibility that the poet Emily Dickinson may have been a survivor of sexual violence. "Absent...