Mental Health
Getting Diagnosed . Content Warning.
...And explaining it is half the problem. Look, with the flip-flopper rapid cycling, it's hard to deny the manic tenacity once meds defogged the pursuing mirror, and no way the paranoia has red hair and a job title. The only rival being the embarrassing drool on this' first draft after the Seroquel. So, I must ask, (doctors, universe, whatever) what the shit is the RAADS meant to aid in my survival? Permanent script flipper to still stutter back into silence at the register-- 'Would you like to try our rewards program?' Huh, where? Never met her. Oh, it gets better. Got a name to google? Yet life proves no change from the shrinking quack's note pads and oh, yeah, Google searches! Fake It, right? *Sigh* It's better than song lyrics-- Seether had me medically secure by eleventh grade, but can't call them cheaters. What the fuck is this? Better Help?! What a fix, rather trust that rollercoaster with seven twists. Speaking of, death has served its purpose in a cynically beautiful sunrise manner--OOPS! I claimed death is an answer. Lordy, mental health's Kryptonite that speaks to beyond the endless night--Not an issue. All those tissues, and I'd better start researching from the first level of its continuum. Only to be given a lexicon of trivial binoculars on the cerebral mysticisms. On my shit, and still a pit of infinite conversational wit befuddlement, split between reality and the version of it that extends beyond all color spectrums. 'Calms is not an enemy.' Then why is it never enough to bond with the socialites of anecdotes', might, without reckless abandonment of--fuck this, that excuse just called! Yeah, that overstimulating thing you suggested finished the last of my reserves, and (truth alert) while I enjoyed my night with you, something pulled partially from a sitcom (truth over) has thrown me off, and if I don't flee, the bus from Speed won't have the gas the to clear the bridge. Not a mix-up, just a page of wordy links for which the reigning conspiracies sink twelve and a half miles below the flat earth. Okay, fine. I've heard worse. But the thin veil of lunacy coating from this sketch book of mine and what's typed, because I'm forever curious of what happens when speaking to the ether goes awry, and the quills keep burning through the timbers--at least it rests the humiliated vocal cords for something that combats the undefeatable. The low-hanging unmeasurable, the missing pieces that are more definable than any humans it inhabitants.
By Willem Indigo8 months ago in Poets
Time: Healer or Just a Teacher?
Time may not solve all problems, but solutions to problems usually appear over time. Even though the past makes you sad, giving yourself some time will allow you to better face the future and start a new life. Although some things are painful, time will always allow you to experience enough and face past setbacks with a smile.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing8 months ago in Poets
How To Break Yourself Down
What does it take to break yourself down? // Start with the trachea, removing your voice so you cannot scream out the pain // Crack open your sternum, breaking out rib-by-rib // Choose to place them gently on the table or throw them in the dirt and hope you are holy enough for a woman to incarnate // Snap your pelvic bone into thirds, one for each leg and one for you // Drain the spinal fluid and eat the cartilage so the vertebrae rattle together and beacon foxes to feast // Make a hollow booming of you femurs // Beat the timpanis with your tibias to announce the death of your flesh and toll against your ossicles // Pop your metatarsals out, always longer than expected // Lastly, tap your fingers against your skull before you separate the proximal from the middle from the distal // Use your teeth // Now found together, skuttle amongst the crabs who will pick you clean of memory of sin and sainthood // in an animalistic life you imagined to live.
By Ariana GonBon8 months ago in Poets
