The poets' narrative |
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"Show me plainly what is real, because Reality is not my thing."
- from poem "lonely in my own mind" by michelle murphy |
 The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "Shall I Resign?".
I resign to disappointment and failure. It’s not going to stop so I’m just giving in. There are secrets buried in my mind. My heart is letting blood everywhere. Yet I don’t care except that the blood keeps my interest and nothing else does anymore. At least I am alive. I have someone to kiss me good night. I still laugh. I’m just not that interested in making others laugh these days. Can’t and won’t are too much of the same thing. "I resign" sounds so alluring because it’s fatalistic and death is darkness conjured upon our bones. Then we rest. But I resign several times a day and I don’t know why. Either to unhealthy habits or to less than fulfilling activities or to fearfulness of a slow death. Seems old age is wearing me thin and I’m not even that old. The big questions under the stars have lost their luster. Weary of curiosity. Maybe the brilliance in the sky will return. Given my past I should not be one to curl up and die. I should rise to the occasion of living well. I’m a sinner who’s not that crazy about salvation anymore. I dislike good stories with too good of an ending. I want to feel good about myself. I want to solve problems. I want revolution again. A part of me died on my last riot for life. What will the vacuum birth? The vacuum dismantled is asleep right now. Maybe it will serve as a wormhole to another life. One with vibrant living, good stories, and youthful expression. Shall I resign? by Michelle N Murphy
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 The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "Sanity Optional" by Tonya Wade.
Tonya Wade has written poetry since she was a child in Mississippi. Her diagnosis of Depression and Panic Disorder has greatly contributed to her art, opening her heart to the many beautiful people struggling with mental health issues every moment of every day. "It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn." - Emily Bronte Sanity Optional six p.m. , knock on the door, Panic answers, Depression's whore. "Please, come in", her smile is a twist, Insanity's there, he's clenching his fist. Anxiety grabs, pins to the rug, when Panic swoops in, "Where is your drug?" Her voice chalkboard screeching, Depression starts reaching, around to the back of the mind he starts leeching, all that you are or ever will be pours out in a puddle of drool at their feet. one thing you'll realize as you descend, you had the option not to go in. by Tonya Wade  The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "What Is?".
What Is? "What is sanity?" It's a conversation with others that makes sense, But not necessarily the private conversations in your head. Love conversations with other people. "What is the spirit world?" Michelle, you know physics. It is just another place, and other places are teaming with energy and intelligence. Adopt physics as part of your spirituality. "Am I known in the spirit world? Well-known?" Yes Michelle, we bet that you are. Always wonder a bit about your impact. It's okay to strive a bit more too. "What about embracing psychosis? Should I do that?" No, that’s a dangerous idea. You will no longer recognize people, or this place you love. Embrace normal. Embrace home. "What about my Capgras delusions?" Small fluctuations in energy cause people to appear as clones or replacements. That is generally what You are experiencing with Capgras delusions. Like the different facets of the ones you love brought to life. "What should I do about dark energy?" You can always absorb and dissipate dark energy (so it won’t last) if your strong enough. Everyone has a dark side. Do not fear dark energy, or entertain it. It exists, but let it not manifest. "Can time be substituted or warped? Is there an off-grid living space here?" If so, not for any bad reason, and not for any fearful reason. But no one should be mis-placed from their home without a good reason. If so, unplanned, there is an emergency response by guardians of time and place. "So what is the goal?" To stay at home, and love home. To avoid the hospital. To love the very different facets of life and your brain. by Michelle Nicole Murphy (Palizzi)  The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "My Dreams".
My Dreams Sometimes I cave in to my dreams - The intense ones, Until about midday. My best dream yet - I awoke mid-film with tears - The little letters in envelopes sent from my heart To another dimension with love. It was about the black ones ruling our society, A charismatic iron fist, Kings too emotional to be fit, Resolutions decided with nuclear holocaust. The drama was about reality And what it really is. Life has meaning. We have to dry up those tears everyday. Like a Trojan horse, Some dreams come from an enemy world Concealed as good vibrations. Often I conquer - but often I’ve lost. Those nightmares fill my mind all day. I’m pinned to a wall - My eyes are all blacked out with oil. I work for a living, Nighttime is my second shift. I drink the Kool-aid of other worlds through a straw, And the moon taps the collapsing and composing Dimensions that take up the gray pink matter of my brain. Where the white horse and the black horse gallops I am mounted - riding for a mission. Take me to the land where magic reigns free. I still see with shut eye. Dreams are about reality And what it really is. Life has meaning. We have to rule with love. by Michelle Nicole Murphy  The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "A Dog Swimming in Mud" by Erica Loberg.
Erica Loberg was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. She attended Columbia University in New York and graduated with a BA in English. She is a published poet and author of Inside the Insane, Screaming at the Void, What Men Should Know About Women, What Women Should Know About Men, and Diamonds From The Rough. She has bipolar II and her blog is https://blogs.psychcentral.com/manic-depression/about. A Dog Swimming in Mud Am I self-destructive. Absolutely. Where does the destruction find itself. Why do I allow the harsh, the real, the unbroken, the bleep on the horizon Be flattened Like a penny On a railroad. Buried beneath the surface is a smothered power. How do I search it out? Like a dog scurries for a bone in the mud.  The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "Something Outside of Herself".
Something Outside of Herself I get my typewriter out And it says to me, “Push my buttons.” This is what I type: Psychosis wipes away the tears Of frozen words. You say, “She’s possessed!” But that does not capture the meaning. Words are spectrums - Not concrete shapes. I say, “She’s also on the spectrum Of inspired - Something outside of herself causes Her to dance, to tick. "If it’s not black or white, Then it’s gray?” No! What we’re talking about Isn't even colors. It’s shades - or shadows really And how they appear And disappear. Mental illness is a bad choice of terms. I got issues - you got issues. That’s it! And hell no! - I don’t want Your issues instead of mine. I have abstract thoughts That have broken me from the Wrist ties that keep us locked away, And from reasoning and speaking. I’ve slipped away enough times To know I don’t do any kind of Cocktail that will make me slip again. It’s a question I’ve faced - Whether to have a daughter that Might be a duplicate of me. I would protect her. Oh glorious! I’ve climbed a mountain Before and given a speech to no one. Oh dreadful! I’ve nailed a semi-truck And only by God’s grace stand here now. Oh police! Oh naked in terror Running down the street. Sheer terror makes my rides Not worth any set of dollar bills. I am older than I look. I’ve been possessed and inspired! At war and brought about peace! I am known in the spirit world And I have been anointed. Oil has glazed down my head - my crown. I put the typewriter down and speak. I said psychosis wipes away the tears of frozen words. That cocktails can free us from our prisons. If you zero in on thousands of years what are ladies still talking about? The glorious, the dreadful, and the police. Inspiration, war and peace. Cocktails, the spirit world, my issues - her issues. Protecting their daughters. The woman’s shadow has always been there, it never disappears. But almost all shadows are worth chasing after. Something outside of herself causes Her to dance, to tick. "If it’s not black or white, Then it’s gray?” No! What we’re talking about Isn't even colors. It’s shades - or shadows really And how they appear And disappear. by Michelle Murphy  The Poets' Narrative shares inspired words by those touched by madness, mania and depression - poems & stories. Today we share a poem, "My Story By Nicole" by Michelle "Nicole" Murphy.
My Story By Nicole My story is told Behind the scenes. Whispers... My story is stored In the movement of the wind. Captured... My story has been scrambled By AI, so its dark secrets remain secret. Shhhh… I grew up in a bubble, It popped in my mid-twenties. I miss that bubble, I didn’t enjoy it then. I was anxious and helped Strike the needle at its core. 'Cause my youth was tame, And I wasn’t myself yet, "Who Am I?” - I searched, I fought like a wild one To become the eagle I am today. My story is told Behind the scenes. Whispers... My story is stored In the movement of the wind. Captured... My story has been scrambled By AI, so its dark secrets remain secret. Shhhh… I lived most of adult life As a triple agent, One life of goodness And purity and zing, Another life a raging party With boos and smoke, And another as A psychic conspiracy artist Of solving puzzles And re-writing songs. I’m a multi-tasker and queen Of wearing different outfits, One with shades And royal earrings. But I don’t party anymore, A break from all conspiracies Is due too, But I can’t be good All the time, “Can I?” My story is told Behind the scenes. Whispers... My story is stored In the movement of the wind. Captured... My story has been scrambled By AI, so its dark secrets remain secret. Shhhh… My greatest strokes Are from starting things up And following through, I’ve got a zillion projects To my name. And an ability To project loveliness Even when all is bruised. My middle name is Nicole, And that is what I pen When my project is dealing With movements of stars Or a Trail of Tears. I can wipe up A great big mess, And be a hot mess all together. My story is told Behind the scenes. Whispers... My story is stored In the movement of the wind. Captured... My story has been scrambled By AI, so its dark secrets remain secret. Shhhh… I live in a parallel world To everyone else, Me & my schizo brain. I rise in the morning late Because I have no Son or daughter. My belly is round And my shape womanly, I get sexed up easily And I love my spouse, I would not remarry For any reason, Because I am dedicated To Love, Of both my friends And family, And James Brian. No one is replaceable, Even I am unique, Even from my clone, For I am Nicole, the initiated - She is Michelle Ma Belle. My story does not Go unnoticed. Whoosh!…. My story is told Behind the scenes. Whispers… My story is stored In the movement of the wind. Captured… My story has been scrambled By AI, so its dark secrets remain secret. Shhhh… There's gossip of a broken heart That has mostly mended. Of a story lassoed By a band of spirits rising. Be quiet! Because I rewrote The music of the kings.  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 Of another. 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 My artwork. 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 Victory. 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. Manic 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 another cigarette. I cannot stand this much longer. "Fine." I stand up. "Let' go. 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 snarl. 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, impatiently. "No, let's take your car, I don't feel up to driving," she says. "Fine." I just want this over with. All of it. Her. Us. I cannot stand it anymore. We ride in silence, there is nothing left to say. 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. I wait. I drive. I smolder. "They are going to call me tomorrow," She says tentatively, nervously awaiting my response. "Great, " I finally mutter barely audible, 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." Silence 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 refuse. 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, strip-searched 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. Protocol. 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. |
ABOUTThe 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. Archives
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