He Sits – The Tower

He Sits – The Tower
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He Sits…
He sits in ‘the tower’.

The tower…
The tower designed ‘to protect him’.

To protect him…
To protect him ‘from others’.

From others…
From others who somehow don’t understand him or ‘don’t need him’.

Don’t need him…
Don’t need him – his anguish or ‘his torment’.

His torment…
His torment that is not only the storm without but also ‘the echoing silence within’.

The echoing silence within…
The echoing silence within that is accentuated by ‘those harrowing whispers’.

Those harrowing whispers…
Those harrowing whispers that are the thoughts and voices that flood ‘his awareness’.

His awareness…
His awareness that resonate with those whispers ‘that haunt his being’.

That haunt his being…
That haunt his being still, being sane, being at peace, ‘being whole’.

Being whole…
Being whole is not possible in this – insanity’s prison, ‘insanity’s tower’.

Insanity’s tower…
Insanity’s tower designed to protect him and yet that ‘which inevitably had imprisoned him’.

Which inevitably had imprisoned him…
Which inevitably had imprisoned him long before he knew it, understood it. long before ‘it was built’.

It was built…
It was built by the hurt, the pain, the very haunting whispers and echoes of whispers that are ‘the madness.’

The madness…
The madness that surrounds him, haunts him, imprisons him, stalks him, consumes him and in which ‘he sits’.

He sits…
He sits an unwilling prisoner and yet somehow an unwilling escapee into the ‘silent troubled isolation of his mind’.

Silent troubled isolation of his mind…
Silent troubled isolation of his mind that echoes deafeningly, accusingly, maddeningly ‘in haunting whispers’.

In haunting whispers…
In haunting whispers ‘he sits’.

He sits.

© Deep From Within/ Kevin A. Deane – May 7th. 2011

[This one is a slightly different approach to the normal style of poems that I write. I wanted to write poem which represented not only the fragmented, slightly disjointed and yet connected thoughts that my mental illness brings me but which also gave the impression of the looping nature of those thoughts.

In writing poem I seek to give no suggestion that all mental illness presents itself in this way, just to recognize and record the fact that mine does.]

He Smiles…

He smiles…
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He smiles,
A clumsy kind of awkward smile.
But all they see,
is an indication that all is well.
So they move on.

Of course all is not well,
not well at all.
Anything but well.
But then, well,
they’ve moved on now.

He sighs.
A heavy kind of thudding sigh.
But all they hear,
is a barricade of voices.
Their voices.

Of course he exists behind that barricade.
But not their side of it.
Other than in their pious concern
their tutting, nodding,
pious concern.

He cries.
A silent kind of captive cry.
But all they hear,
is the absence of his mania.
So they are content.

But not content for him you see.
For that would cost in care.
Content within their piety.
That his mania’s not there.

They cannot see, they do not know,
the truth so deep so real.
That only in his mania,
does he ever seem to feel.

But mania’s sporadic.
Unpredictable, and free.
Uncontrollable, chaotic,
Intense duplicity.

What do they need?
Before they act.
Some gesture large and loud?
A lifeless corpse?
Remorseful note?
A hopeless telling shroud?

I will not offer that to them.
To jar them into seeing.
Seeing that, which was always there.
This hopeless, hurting being.

© Deep From Within/Kevin A. Deane 2012

[Sometimes you just need to speak that which is on your heart no matter how sad or dark that may be.

Please note that the characters represented in this poem are completely nonfictional and all names have been omitted to protect the guilty lol]

A Trip To The Psych.

A Trip To The Psych.

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Come in, sit down.
Hey its been a while.
Tell me how you are.
As I glance at your file

I can spare 5 minutes.
Whilst we sit and we chat
Oh and the voices aren’t real.
Did I mention that?

Is sleeping still hard?
Still awake all night long?
Are you taking your meds?
Are the urges still strong?

Tell me how you are feeling.
But please make it quick.
There are many, many folk,
Whose minds are as sick.

Yes I’m sure that is hard.
And its natural how you feel.
Did I mention before,
That the voices are not real?

Are you eating right?
Tell me who’s in your life?
Are you living with your folks?
Are you married? Have a wife?

Yes I know I should know.
Should have looked before you came.
But I’ve so many patients.
It’s the system that’s to blame

No of course I care.
I am just so busy you see.
You know those voices aren’t real?
Are they talking about me?

Saying I don’t really care.
That you’re bothering me.
Because that isn’t true.
I’m just busy you see.

So good. I think we’re done.
We’ll meet in 12 weeks.
Unless your mood crashes low.
Or your mania peaks.

But keep taking your pills.
Stay safe, that’s for sure.
Oh and the voices aren’t real.
Did I say that before?

And remember if you need us,
We’re just a call away.
We’ll do all that we can.
You simply have to say.

©Deep From Within/Kevin A. Deane 2012

[I guess, in the spirit of objectivity and fair play, I should mention that not all psychiatric services are as bad as the picture that is perhaps painted  through my poem above. 

Indeed, I have heard of several people who find the psychiatric services which they receive to be very good indeed.

I just don't happen be one of those people. 

Poetry is, for me, a form of communication.  Painting with words if you will.  For me it is a way of communicating, of expressing,  that which is on my heart. 

Sometimes I write poetry which is intended to make some social commentary.  Sometimes it is but a humourous observation.  Other times it my way of inviting you the reader to think about a specific situation or common event, behaviour or attitude.

But poetry for me  is also a way in which I reflect upon, analyze, process and deal with that which is on my heart.

This poem was written for that purpose and by way of social commentary also.]

Diary Of Shame

The Diary of Shame

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If I open up my skin,
will the pain trickle out?
And silently scream
what my heart wants to shout?

Will it take from this void,
something fluid and real?
Will it drag from the nothingness,
a chance but to feel?

To feel for a moment
if just searing hot pain.
Will it take all the nothing
and offer me gain?

But then what comes after?
More pain and more guilt?
My personal gallows,
through this action are built

An essay of pain.
Red, raw and thin.
Desperation’s own ink,
On hopelessness’ skin.

So I fight for the freedom,
my pain longs to see.
And I fight to fit in.
To be loved. To be me.

Not give in to the urges,
that call from despair.
Can you see all my pain?
Do you see? Do you care?

Oh please won’t you answer?
The cries that I hide.
And help me let out,
all that locked inside.

There has to be hope.
I just have to believe.
Need to think. Need to act.
Need to calm. Need to breathe.

It’s starting again.
This thing that consumes.
All the thoughts of the nothing.
One million dooms.

Will you reach out and hold me?
Through your strength,
Make me strong?
Look into my eyes?
Tell my heart I belong?

Belong to your love.
Not this blade, fierce and wild.
Can you look past the scars?
And still see your child?

I hope that you can.
I need to be free.
To be free from this prison.
These stripes holding me.

The dream in my heart,
Please help me make real.
Look past all my weirdness,
And help me to heal.

So I can look at my body.
And happiness claim.
And simply see me.
Not this diary of shame.

© Kevin A. Deane/Deep From Within 2012

 

[I wrote this poem a little while back now but due to my having flu couldn't record the audio file to go with it. Actually I still have that flu, as you can probably tell from the recording, but at least my breathing and voice have improved a little.  So apologies for the recording.

I have for some time now been quite open about my struggles with self-harming. It is actually a very common thing, far more common than most people understand. But is often hidden due to the guilt and shame and the stigma and lack of understanding attached to it.

This particular poem speaks about one way in which I self-harm, which in this case is by cutting. But it is worth mentioning that self-harm can take numerous different forms and should never be seen as just being cutting.

Thankfully, at the time of this poem's publication, I am winning my fight with this and thankfully self-harming is far more understood nowadays and there is help out there for those who battle with this.

If you struggle with self-harming, then no matter how nervous you are about sharing you personal struggle with this, I encourage you to seek the discrete, confidential, professional help that is now available to most people.]

The Time Thief

The Time Thief.
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He comes.  Without warning, announcement, design.

He steals into my now, taking that which was mine.

He blinds me with nothingness, transports me away.

Away from the now where my body does stay.

-oOo-

It stays, seems to function, for all that I know?

Or does it shut down or time itself go?

Did I slip through a matrix but never arrive?

Am I dead, am I dormant? I must still be alive.

-oOo-

I know not his purpose this time taking thief

and as for effects, I find no relief.

Can’t say that I gained or suffered at all

I just wonder what happened and feel like a fool.

-oOo-

Did time itself burp or jar from its path?

Does Time Thief sit watching, just having a laugh?

Or experiment upon me in ways oh so cruel,

that leave no real sign and that I just don’t recall?

-oOo-

Oh I know it sounds crazy, to paranoia I’m inclined.

So I rationalize it out with good part of mind.

But that doesn’t change or alter at all.

What happens to me,this sad simple fool.

-oOo-

When he comes without warning, announcement, design.

and steals into my now, taking that which was mine.

and blinds me with nothingness, transports me away.

Away from the now as my mind does decay.

©Kevin A. Deane – October 2011.

Originally posted on my mental health blog/site along with the following comment…

I have decided ( since Shakespeare maintained that, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women simply players”) that I will try and analyze or at least describe the different facets of my mental health by giving them personas.

This first one (possibly of many or of few or of none depending on whether or not I remember that I started this) is intended to describe what happens and how I feel afterwards when I suddenly realise that I have lost or at least misplaced a great chunk of time from the day.  Those times when I just seem to zone out.  I am also going to record this in my poetry blog – Deep From Within

The Sacrifice of Love

The Sacrifice of Love

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Is freedom mine to offer you.

The love within my heart?

Or has it long since been declared

of a greater love just part?

Indeed my life is not mine own

but given to the King

The one I serve and worship true

The one for whom I sing.

And if I had not, all those years,

cleaved my life in role as groom.

Could now I let my feelings grow?

this love to come to bloom?

Perhaps the music in my heart

the words that leave my lips

In part no matter how I tried

that greater love eclipse

I would not want for this to be

To limit in any way

our adoration for the Lord

or from our paths to stray.

And what of you oh gentle one?

What of your faith and need?

Would not for me to free my love

Simply be just greed?

The precious King of whom I serve

For whom my heart is true

Does not His Kingship serve as well

to cover also you?

So yes I’ll yield my heart’s desire

Unto my savior’s will

Obedient I will remain

And in loyalty be still.

I have no doubt in heart or mind

That you will find your place

albeit in another’s arms

Such is the Father’s grace.

Yet in my sadness I find joy

For our King is Father too

And I know His love has perfect plan

Both for me and yes for you.

© Kevin A. Deane – 12/01/2011

 

Sometimes in life the plans that we freely and willingly make shape our lives from that moment on. Further down the road the implications of these actions or plans or decisions, (especially when they have gone so tragically wrong), are made better known to us.

Often times this is accompanied with some sadness and yet in Christ we have joy.

Walk With Me.

Walk With Me

Walk With Me.

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My Heart is calling to your tears
You’ll find no loss in me
No silence, numbness and no fears.
Just a Love to set you Free

-o-

Release the veil in heart and head
Without my love your future’s dead
I will protect and keep you near
Within my heart I hold you dear

-o-

Hear the voice with which I call
Within my arms you’ll never fall.
Come to me and let it go
The time is now, and this you know.

-o-

Release your hurts, let go your pain,
Call to me now call out my name.
Reach up to me and take my hand
Together in love we both will stand.

-o-

I see your tears I know your heart,
I offer a love that will never part.
I will not leave you all alone
My love and heart will be your home.

-o-

Come take my hand come home be free
Your future’s safe, safe in me
I’ve touched that heart you turned to stone
Now accept my love and be my own?

-oOo-

© Kevin A. Deane

 

In response to a prayer for the lonely and the lost. I hope it blesses you.

Some Plastic Christians

I feel the need to preface this next offering with an explanation that yes I am a born again Christian and yes there are many, many Christians out there who really do love with the love of Christ and who are real and sincere.

This poem is not based on any of them or indeed targeted at them. Which kind of leaves the rest doesn’t it!

Some Plastic Christians

Some Plastic Christians….

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Some plastic Christians
Put on a face for the church they belong;
Isn’t that wrong?.
Dust of their bibles,
Wearing a face that they keep on a shelf by the door.
Who is it for?
All the plastic Christians, where do they all come from?
All the plastic Christians, where do they all belong?

-o-

Reverent Image
Writing the words of a sermon their heart seldom hears;
Seldom gets near.
Look at them mingling,
Nodding and smiling in sight when there’s somebody there.
What do they care?
All the plastic Christians, where do they all come from?
All the plastic Christians, where do they all belong?

-o-

I look at all the plastic Christians.
I look at all the plastic Christians.

-o-

One lonely person
Died in a church and was buried alone with her pain.
Nobody came.
Reverent Image
Smiling and waving his hand as he walks past her grave.
No one was saved.
All the plastic Christians, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?

-oOo-

© Kevin A. Deane

Please click on the arrow below to listen to this poem.

This poem was based on the song by the Beetles – “Eleanor Rigby” or “All the lonely people”.

It is a comment on those believers who have different church faces to their everyday faces and indeed on the fact that if our love isn’t real, if we are not consistent, true and compassionate and see beyond this then God’s work, the ministry Christ has given us will not be fulfilled.

I know it is controversial and I apologize for any offence it may cause, but I ask that you consider it’s validity before complaining about it’s harshness.

The Gift of You My Child.

Adopted

The Gift of You My Child.

I wasn’t there to hold you
At the moment you were born.
To lift you up, into my arms
When your life began it’s dawn.

-o-

I wasn’t there to kiss you
To shed tears of many joys
But I’m proud to be the father
of my baby girls and boys

-o-

I couldn’t wrap my arms around you
or teach you how to talk
To guide you in your infant steps
And help you learn to walk.

-o-

I wasn’t there on your first school day
To walk you there, with pride
But our love you know is God’s own gift.
And fills our hearts inside

-o-

So when you’re feeling lonely,
and your life, it makes you sad.
Just close your eyes and think about
The love from this, your dad.

-o-

I will never, ever leave you
Never try to make you cry
Never want to see you suffer
And here’s the reason why.

-o-

God’s love is oh so perfect
It is tender, true and mild.
And he made it oh so special,
In the gift of you my child.

-o-

Yes, God’s love is oh so perfect
It is tender, true and mild.
And he made it oh so special,
In the gift of you my child.

-oOo-

© Kevin A. Deane

Please click on the arrow below to listen to this poem.

In my life I have been so very blessed to be able to adopt a lot of children as my own and hopefully to demonstrate to them the love and nature of God as best I can.

I wrote this poem some years ago in order to demostrate how special and cherished each and every one of them are to me. It is an open poem and if you will an open letter to each of them.

He Sits – The Wall

He Sits - The Wall

He sits,

the window before him.

A doorway to a million thoughts,

thoughts that waltz in the music,

Music of a million, million memories.

-o-

Then come the names,

names that appear on his screen.

Names that once brought comfort and support,

love and understanding.

Names of his children?

-o-

Then came the change.

The loss of the trust once there.

Too many whispers echoing to him.

Whispers that grew to screams.

As they passed through each of them back to him.

-o-

Then came the questions.

Why do they do that to each other?

Why do they do that to him, why do it at all?

Running to each other with rumours.

Gossip and misunderstandings?

-o-

Then again came the jealousy.

Jealousy that’s so rife and so sad.

Jealousy if you show fondness

Fondness to anyone other than them.

Jealousy that changes love to pain.

-o-

Then came the wounds.

That cut so deep into his heart.

How can he keep going?  Keep going on?

His resistance is weak, his hurting so strong?

He is drowning in disappointment

-o-

Then comes reality

Reality that says he has failed

They talk about history

The 6 years we have had.

6 years and still jealousy, God that is sad

-o-

Then comes the heartache

So deep and so true

The jealousy their feeling, their assigning to you!

This jealousy sad and so weak and so lame

But sadder is them thinking you’re feeling the same.

So here comes my question

-o-

What of our love?

The love held so deep, love from above?

When corrupted it hurts a hurt that’s so deep

Is Love gone now forever or still there to keep?

-o-

And now comes admission,

See I still feel that love

Can lose it, forget it, dump it at all?

It’s end I can’t start, for you are all part

A part of my loving a part of my heart.

-o-

See I know about value

See I know about cost

I know about pain where my life seems to be lost

I’m not walking away, or running you see

I am just sitting behind walls that I made for me

-o-

Made to protect me

Made wide and tall

An impregnable prison from this world o h so cruel

And it protect all around me protects you from me

As I drown in the midst of my own misery

-o-

So forgive me for hurting

And for feeling this pain

And don’t try to take on all of the blame

It ain’t you at fault so don’t take that on board

It’s me who has failed, me who is flawed

-o-

I wanted to teach, loving and care

But can’t see it not more, only seldom is it there

Just selfishness, jealousy, bitterness, pain

Don’t like it in the world

Don’t like is used in my name

-o-

So I am hiding, I need to

Can’t help it you see

I gotta stay sane gotta find me

gotta stay in my prison till it’s save to be free

but don’t tell me I don’t care or love you at all

it’s just love’s hard to show

from behind this my wall

-oOo-

© Kevin A. Deane

Please click on the arrow below to listen to this poem.

I wrote this one many many years ago now.  It was in response to a situation we expereinced then, possibly 12 or 13 years back.  Things drastically changed for the better immediately after this and ever since, but the lessons that can be learned from it are always relevant.