Downsized Shell.
To listen to this poem please click on the black arrow above.
Downsized Shell.
I’m very big and very round,
and really rather wide.
For that’s the shell that I have built
the real me for to hide.
Well not only as a shell I guess.
There’s more to it than that.
Several reasons all combine.
Combine to make me fat.
An inner ugliness i’ve felt.
The unworthiness I had.
A worthlessness so hard to lose,
when you see yourself as ‘bad’.
For shell’s aren’t only shells you know.
They’re living statements made
Commentaries on what’s within.
On self-worth so decayed.
Well not for everyone, I know.
There can be other reasons too.
But that’s the truth about my shell.
And perhaps the truth for you?
Designed to hide me, keep you out.
To keep the world at bay.
So many see me, even come and talk,
But don’t touch, then walk away.
That it must change this I know,
And downsizing’s all the rage.
And after all, this shell I’ve built,
has now become a cage.
A cage that holds, imprisons me.
A fatal hindrance too.
So I must fight to alter it.
And live my life anew.
The fight is hard, I cannot lie.
Still I struggle to achieve.
To see that I am worth the fight.
In my own self-worth believe.
An yet i’ll try, as best I can.
Facing hurdles large and sure.
To live the life that’s best for me.
This race I must endure.
©Kevin A. Deane/Deep From Within 2012
All rights reserved.
I sat at St. Columcille’s Hospital today, waiting for my regular appointment with the Weight Management Team and due to transport logistics I was there a few hours early. So as I sat I decided to write this poem about my morbid obesity.
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.
Deep From Within 