The poets' narrative
a blog dedicated to inspired poems & stories written by those touched by madness, mania & depression.
The poets' narrative
The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "My Black Box & Fine Lines" by Michelle Murphy.
My Black Box & Fine Lines
The never-ending process of storing
Information and either accepting the
War or setting it aside in my black box,
Where anything can enter but nothing
Comes out of it without permission, so
I can live a normal life, functional
Among my friends and family,
Also rules of fine lines
That I seemed to cross during the
War, I take note and imprint them
On my mind always—
For the next gallery of lights.
There are always a few choices
Where boundaries seem key,
Whether to go on living
Or be incited to maddening anger,
Whether to take the road further
To a place where only I find
Myself abducted or raped,
Whether to trust fallibly the
Care of a doctor, and whether
To listen to my heavy heart or one
Life goes on, they say.
Life goes on, I say,
So long as I process and keep my
Black box beside me,
So long as I learn which lines
Not to cross and imprint them
On my heart forever.
Then I can trust even myself.
I’ll marry, maybe,
And have kids, maybe,
And even be able to keep up
Over the years, I can look back
And see improvements and sometimes
Even look forward to another
Episode, in wait, ready with
My black box and fine lines,
Ready for triumph and eventual
I’m no curious cat, as they say,
But a chooser among battles,
Ready for the war that I
Must engage in from time to time.
The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today I share a poem - "Manic" by Parris Pack.
Just another manic Sunday.
by Parris Pack
Despair washes away into blue thought-
Into polar from he who is but fraught-
Denied flight with clipped mind as I am wild
Maddened stains cling dressed as some part of me
Washing hands of sins not of my own styled-
Hoping this cleansed skin does with lye free.
Gaining furies drive which is for now-
Losing depressed fears which make a life death
Owing no-one as I do climb to brow-
Coming upon the crest, I find no breath.
Sorrowed night does come once more to the fore-
Bluish pain claims the mind with cold, dead hands,
Borrowed time gone, I am now tired and sore-
Going to the prow as I dream new plans.
Manic anger at bay as I do turn
Within, only to be shorn of winged erne
Dreaming thusly of days which do not burn
Flying skyward I face this dark night stern.
Despair washes away into blue thought-
Into polar from he who is but fraught...
The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today I share a poetic essay - "Buddha & Benzos" by Andrew Turman. The artwork above is also by Turman.
"I am just another artist who happens to have bipolar disorder. I am not that bad, I am evolving." ~ Andrew Turman
"Buddha and Benzos"
"I hate you"
she screams out
the open windows to the neighbors.
Then she crumples
to the floor
in a puddle of silk and denim.
The cycle repeats
over and over
I try hard not to notice...
"Maybe I need to go
to the hospital?"
She questions me.
As I just got out
the day before
against medical advice,
I remain coolly silent.
"I thought this is why
you wanted me home,
to leave the asylum early."
I say through clenched teeth.
"Yes!" she cries.
"I love you, I need you.
Please help me from myself,
and keep me safe."
Indifferently, I light
I cannot stand this much longer.
"Fine." I stand up.
Let's get you to the psych ward."
She changes her mind.
She sits. She picks up the phone.
She languidly starts flipping through the phone book.
"I know the fucking number,"
I spit at her.
I know all the numbers.
"No," she says.
"I want to call the Crisis Center."
My blood boils.
"It is staffed by bloody social workers,"
I know this, from experience.
"They make me more comfortable,"
she whines at me,
tears in her eyes.
"Let's just go,"
I say, grabbing the keys to her car,
"No, let's take your car,
I don't feel up to driving,"
I just want this over with.
All of it. Her. Us.
I cannot stand it anymore.
We ride in silence,
there is nothing left
I pull into the Emergency Room parking lot.
I walk toward the door, while
she sits in the car, tentative.
She calls to me,
"How about we go to the Crisis Center?
It is at the other end of the building.
I walk back, seething.
"You need to see a psychiatrist,"
I practically snarl, lip curled.
"I will, I will, I will,"
she promises falsely.
She gets out and walks to the door.
I am manic,
irritable, impatient, intolerant.
I storm the door behind her.
I am made to wait outside
while she is being interviewed,
as I was a distraction, talking over her, trying to give them the reality of the situation,
not the candy-coated version she is peddling.
I go smoke...again.
One after another,
until she finally emerges.
We get into the car.
As I pull away from the lot,
she is silent.
"They are going to call me tomorrow,"
She says tentatively, nervously
awaiting my response.
"Great, " I finally mutter
almost under my breath.
Finally, I give her a real reply.
"You need to be in the hospital."
I know. I just got out of one,
the sixth in seven days.
She helped me when I needed her.
She drove me from Pittsburgh
to Philadelphia, looking for somewhere
that would accept me.
Now, it was my turn to help her.
I knew of a place, not far away.
I had frequent flyer miles there.
I stopped at the Dunkin' Donuts
to get a "dead-eye,"
a quad-shot of espresso in a large cup of dark roast.
I take a right, toward the highway,
away from the house.
"Where are you going?"
a voice from the passenger seat asks softly,
a million miles away.
"I am going to get you the help you need,"
I growl, anger bubbling to the surface,
my purpose becoming crystal in my mind.
She pleads with me to take her home,
she receives silence as a response.
She absently fumbles with her cell phone.
In an instant, she suddenly realizes
what I am doing, and starts to cry.
"Please take me home."
She dials a number on her phone,
but I barely notice.
My aim is true.
Distantly, because I am trying to ignore her,
I hear her talking to someone.
"I am being kidnapped!"
The operator wants to talk to me.
I know what I am going to do.
The first cruiser, of an eventual seven,
pulls in behind me.
I am sure to go the speed limit
as his lights begin to flash.
I drove and drove
Seventeen miles with my escorts.
Red and blue, red and blue, red and blue.
Streaks across the black Pennsylvania sky.
They put out spike strips,
popping out three of my tires.
I drove on for another two miles, before I was forced to stop
the car screaming for mercy.
A trooper approached my window.
Accidentally, I rolled it up instead of down.
He responded by breaking it out.
The door was locked.
He broke the handle.
Another trooper pulled me out
the passenger door, losing a shoe and my glasses in the process.
I went limp
as they dragged me across the macadam
to the gravel on the side of the highway.
I felt the heavy boots kicking me,
a multitude of law enforcement
surrounding me with guns drawn.
Hard knees in my back,
I submitted to the handcuffs,
screaming for a officer trained in mental health.
She is howling, like a monkey now.
"He just got out of the hospital!"
"Please don't hurt him!"
They pulled me to my feet,
but I refused to walk.
They dragged me to the cruiser,
adding the charge of resisting arrest
to the laundry list,
which eventually numbered twelve felonies and a few various misdemeanors.
They took me back to the barracks,
for a quick teleconference with the night judge.
His decision, via teleconference, bail set at $75 000.
I thought I was, even with my damaged car, a flight risk.
I was transferred to the prison,
and given an orange jumpsuit to wear.
I was taken to a cell, solitary,
where I was to spend a week.
After heated discussion, they took away the jumpsuit
and gave me a horse blanket to wrap my naked body in.
They put me on suicide watch.
I was fed though a slot in the door.
The only human contact I had.
No silverware, lest I plunge a plastic fork
in my throat, in an attempt to kill myself.
I sat there, in my "baby-dolls"
for a week before the
mental health worker came to see me.
I was not allowed to make a call
to my father because of my status as
a suicide risk. I could talk to no one.
They decided to move me to another cell;
They needed solitary for someone else, someone more dangerous.
So, I found myself in a room with three others,
each of us in our 'baby-dolls," naked, wrapped in horseblankets.
I spent another week and a half there,
with the lights on, eating food with our fingers,
making small talk, guardedly.
Some boasted of their crimes, some proclaimed their innocence. I never said a word.
I started benzodiazipine withdrawal, since I was not given my medication.
It is worse than heroin withdrawal. Trust me.
I was on fire, bugs crawling beneath my skin.
My lawyer finally got me out.
He took me to the hospital, urging me
to say whatever it took to get myself admitted.
He did not want to take me back to the prison.
I knew what to say.
I have played the game many times.
I have been in the hospital over fifteen times in the past 25 years.
I have had 45 electroshock treatments.
I have taken 33 different medications in search of one that might work.
I have seen it all, all black water and blue ruin.
I was admitted, eventually.
These things take time.
Forms need to be filled out,
the proper people contacted.
I am forced to put on a hospital gown,
despite my being there for a mental issue.
I rode in a wheelchair to the ward, despite
my ability to walk.
I sank in a deep depression
so I laid in bed for a week and a half
while my psychiatrist mixed a psychophamceutical cocktail for me.
Psychiatrists don't practice medicine anymore.
They practice their hand-writing.
Most are not even good at that.
My father finally took me home,
only with the clothes on my back, barefoot.
She had evicted me. I lost all of my worldly possessions,
including my two cats.
For the past two years,
I have lived with my parents.
They are elderly, and need my help.
So I do.
I work on my faith; I have been a
Buddhist for twelve years now.
Birth, death, rebirth.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I am not coming back.
The First Noble Truth is
that life is suffering,
and so I have.
I work my craft.
I paint, as Zen Daddy T.
I write, as Wm. Andrew Turman.
I work, as an advocate for mental health.
I live the life of a monk.
I do not drive, as they took my license away.
I am not allowed to leave the county without permission.
I try to explain this to my son with autism over the phone.
He doesn't understand.
Neither do I.
If one is lucky, one survives these life-changing experience intact.
I have had to pick up the sharp, mirrored pieces by myself.
I try to put the puzzle pieces back together.
It is a daunting task, but necessary.
I want to grow. I want to do.
Today, I will fly.
I am Superman.
The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, including myself - poems & stories. Today the poem is "The Language of Psychosis" and the proper definition of this psychiatric term is below.
Here are 2 definitions for psychosis to consider:
The Language of Psychosis
by Michelle Murphy
My God? A fragrant or pungent Smell of incense?
Helen of Troy & Aphrodite? Cassandra? Ecstasy?
Aliens - not from Mexico? And prophets, shamans?
Madmen? Signals & microwaves, OR the red planet on it's way?
The Jinn of fire & smoke, us of clay & earth
Or an electrical frequency giving way to inter-dimensional
beings usually In hiding? I see clones and wannabes,
Protectors. I'm terrified. Relay the situation - Quick!
Also fallen angels, devils and prehistoric contemplators,
Tempters & liberators, wishful thinkers riding my back,
Sitting on my shoulders, offering everything, tormenting,
Screaming, inciting police, digging needles into my arm.
Where is my tinfoil hat? The signals have forsaken my
Privacy and I am under attack. I follow the footprints back
To my nest egg of hot coffee and smoking sticks where I can
Share information with elite agents about the Trail I'm onto.
I tell them my eggs are not for sale, my blood is not for sale, my
Soul is not for sale. My cats are not hypnotized. The snakes upon
Her head have turned My heart to stone. I cannot fear more than I can fear.
I cannot tremble more than I can tremble. My mission is too extreme.
Where is my God? In the embers of the fire, in the atoms
Of the clay, in the DNA of the prehistoric contemplators,
In my head, OR All of the above if He is omnipresent. But
I said where? I'm on auto-pilot but who's driving?
Tell me the words I shall speak by which I may make
Others understand. Does my language have to be of one spirit?
No, it can be that of a young wizard striving towards manhood, or a
Poet seeking beauty in her inner world. Pure magic nevertheless.
The sacred is Defined as the waring sides of light and
Darkness, the yin and yang, interconnected but very ???
Scientific - yes. Factual - yes. Spiritual, Alien - Yes too.
All the contexts serve the language of psychosis right.
My conspiracy is that somewhere in the cosmos something
Is conspiring - not against, but also with me. Is God in charge
For real or am I an unbeliever in Deliverance? Striving to understand
The true Nature of reality. For all I have seen since birth is wire strings.
Deliverance. Deliverance. Yes. Here I am again. Delivered.
The tin foil hat did its job, Cassandra is my middle name,
And the red planet sent my lunar cycle into a tail spin, but
It's time to travel into the future, I'll ride the 3D and 4D train.
The cycles of the lunar moon got my PMS going - Psychosis
Minded Symptoms. Meet me, myself and I in the future with or without
My PMS. But for Pete's sake - Speak the lingo! Magic discourse.
Read words of deliverance to keep me out of the gutter too.
The poets' narrative? Inspired words? Inspired by what?! We can't pin it down but nonetheless madness can't be ruled out for Michelle, and many of the other writers quoted here.