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.]