Friday, May 7, 2010

Psychiatric Prose and Poetry...

This has been a rough week. Well, actually month and it's only the 7th. *sigh* Twenty minutes ago, laying on the floor, I just wanted to curl up into a ball and go to sleep. I had closed my eyes when I remembered "oh crap, it's Thursday, I have to post a blog for tomorrow." I started to shrug it off, but see that's how it all started. I put off posting once, then it got easier for me to put it off. I mean it's not like I'm trying to become some blogger extraordinaire and neither did I think there was anyone expecting to read my blog today that would be disappointed. On the other hand, I knew it'd be me who was disappointed.

Recently, when things have gotten tough I admit I've been content with taking the easy way out. That's not who I am though, at least not who I used to be. Furthermore, I remembered I am a writer. Not the best writer, not one by trade, but when I used to be frustrated, sad, angry, brokenhearted, whatever I'd write. It always proved therapeutic. The same is proving true for this post. Even though I didn't let out any confessions or get all analytical, writing made me feel a little better. I call it psychiatric prose.

Speaking of psychiatric prose, check out a piece I wrote awhile ago with a similar name called Psychiatric Poetry...

When you cry
Where do the tears go?
They stain your face
Or you wipe them away with your hands
Seeping back into your skin
Reentering your body
Inadvertently recycling your pain
That is why I write instead

I use the pen as an anesthesia
Ink flowing freely from the tip of the needle
On the paper I write my heart's lyrics
My prescription
For when I need to be numb
From that coughy, achy, sneezy, headache type love

Or
The medicine that helps me
When I'm losing my mind
A panacea to my psychosis
A premium HMO
My life is the virus
In my hand, the cure
For the malignant growth in my head
I write pharmaceutical stanzas
Chemotherapy for my brain's cancer

When I can't remember why life is worth living
A lifetime of joys erased
Plagued by senility
My formula I formulate
On the pad of paper
I am grateful
For my words' permanency

I am a doctor of poetry
Mastering in the school of thought
I compose
Lines of living limericks
From my fountain pen of youth

So I'll write when I'm in pain
Even if it hurts me
I'll write
Antidotal anecdotes
Filling up the pages
Until I restore my health
I'll write
Remedies of rhymes
And I'll write
Until I'm too tired to cry 

- B. Antoinette

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