Poetry: Untitled

Breeze, air, oxygen to my lungs.

Infinite blades of grass, directions,

Space for my great run,

Smoke from my lips,

Formaldehyde, embrace me. Warm my soul. Addiction - sweeten the guilt 

Of my inhibitions.

Confirm my purchase of this ticket to routine, my adventure to regulated safety.

I call away this indecision, 

Angel on my shoulder? Wither,

Like a flower, or the rose you've tried to send.

Torment. Whirring, an old engine screaming lies. 

She won't make a move, 

Not if there's nothing in checkmate's grasp.

Flee this battle, shy away from impossible victory,

Oh but it taunts me. 

Siren in the sea, engulf me.

In open water enclose me, 

Lay me in solitary. 

Poetry: Untitled

Winter touch and a soft breeze,

Call my name with ease.

Our skin numb and we shiver,

Sighs of cold.

Our bodies are an Antarctic river.

We stay, we ponder, our breath reveals our soul and it drifts between the other.

You're my warm hearted lover, 

Your sweet air in my lungs, 

My lone fear, let it be over.

 My mask it sheds and melts, and in the ice of dusk sweet burning I felt.

Trains fly by, I'm a stopped watch, engaged like a still of the sky.

Capture me, capture us, capture this, Our birth as a brand new us, 

Let us lie on stone, 

And we'll know it as home. 

Poetry: Dark Grey

Place me in an endless mist,

 drown me in your humidity, 

I indulge in my wish.

There's demons in the darkness, 

In the black there's death, 

I only fear the mid tones, 

I'm choking on the grey. 

You can see me, feel me and even touch me. 

But I'm a shadow of superposition, 

This is my box. 

Take me to the dark I plead,

Again,

And again. 

Mental Health: Death Death Death. .

Part One An Understanding From An Individuals Thought Process:

In moments where my world appears to have dissipated into nothingness I imagine reality takes a different colour scheme. Sometimes I see visions of lifeless blues, other days my life desaturates and I’m lost in an almost black and white limbo. I’m looking towards the reality in front of me and everything is under exposed. Medically this is described as poor mental health; my erratic to apathetic thought contrast is just a categorisation of illness. After you find yourself under the nose of a psychological professional you become an offering to science, a statistic in their slow moving cognitive editing process. They hope to commercialise you; retouch your flaws until you blend into acceptance. It’s quite similar to one of those make-over television shows where some rather flamboyant gay man dolls up some unfortunate blob and demonstrates his success in making her somewhat easier to look at. Without the cringeworthy excitement, usually without the success and with the hope we’ll be able to look at ourselves without clawing our fingernails deep into the underneath of our eye sockets. It’s easy to blame the professionals for the unsuccessful treatment of depressive states; but we do this to ourselves, I fell irrevocably in love with the essence of my self destruction. Depression is a woman. I’ve gazed into her eyes and her soul burnt into mine, I’ve stroked her soft cheeks passionately whilst I made love to her lips - she is my infinity. 

Life is chaos and soon you find you’re no longer afraid of ceasing to exist. In fact you’re terrified of living. In some respects the urge to die comes at you like a tick and you’re muscles are somewhat fighting what is left of your sanity, the small eery voice in your head that wants to climb the emotional mountains that is life. But God it is small - a whisper at a rave. 

I wake up every morning battling my Stockholm Syndrome attachment towards my insanity until my whisper discovers a miracle cure. 

Part Two Understanding to Helping:

Apparently the miracle cure is just changing the way I think? I can close my eyes, strain my facial muscles and repeat “everything is super” three times over and rainbows will just start streaming from my arsehole. Then everything will be fine - besides the fact that I have colours coming from my orifices. And the bloody obvious fact that if that’s how narrow minded you are as to how this works then you’re a fucking twat biscuit. Go sit in a mental health hospital and take the time out of your day to understand the mind? Get yourself out of the renaissance; get on the fucking internet and have a nice little one to one session with Google. “I don’t believe in depression.” Well I don’t believe in asthma attacks. Coughing to death? Nah, you just don’t want to breathe properly. You’re not trying to breathe properly. Just think about the wind and it blowing through the trees and you’ll be fixed forever. In fact - I don’t believe in dying. Just think you’ll live forever and you will. Obviously nobody is trying hard enough. Lazy bastards. Get some motivation. 

In all seriousness though it’s not something we decided to feel or do, it’s a serious problem which we can’t control alone. I’m sure nobody wakes up in the morning thinking today I want my thought process to repeat the word “Death. Death. Death. Death. Death.” exactly to the rhythm of the ticking of a clock. I do things and say things with no regards at the time as to what the outcome may be and later regret it majorly in times of sanity. Exactly like the feeling that comes after sleeping with some ugly unclean chlamydia riddled monster whilst heavily intoxicated and waking up next to them in the morning to see that they’ve actually got a face that looked like it’s been plummeted by the ugly stick. Oh, and a personality as exciting as dog shit in grass - because looks aren’t everything! Unless you’re shallow. Patients die because they’re physically ill and in this circumstance the brain is faulty and it causes death too, people don’t just fancy toppling from a bridge or eating aspirin like it’s cereal. They need it. Think learning? Think understanding? Think help. Think support. Help.