Side-Effects: A Sonnet

featured in the poetry forum June 20, 2015  :: 0 comments

When the psychiatric Chorus yearns to learn,
The answers to questions for mind pain, so far,
Well intentioned treatments are slowly adjourned,
When probability falls within the bell jar.

Never so uncertain as when dispensing pills,
And conjured up cures come in percents.
That the tiny tablets we swallow when ill,
Reveal side-effective supplements.

Know the sum of these might irritate,
as they spark to soothe the troubled mind.
Regurgitating, hallucinating, even organs mutilate,
Trembling hands and eyes caught in the blinds.

So ask for help – step in the abyss.
Cause you never know what you might miss

editors note:

Beneath the bell or in the blinds, observation imposes control. Step out and step in! (We welcome Tom to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of Tom’s madness on his new page – check it out!) – mh clay

Obsession: A Sonnet

featured in the poetry forum April 5, 2015  :: 0 comments

The great states of mind vary endurability.
A faith for Gods can last for thousands.
Routine mental illnesses, clearly less ably.
The ADD’s and CCD’s inspire fewer years and funds.

The sick in the mind are damned to be scotched.
We Schizos, Bi-Polars, Paranoids still exist.
Compassionate, helpless loved ones watch;
Its the “Psychs, Meds and Shady-Shaman Twist.”

That’s me, Bi-Polar for life (without choice).
The manic’s grandiose attitude and more.
Depressed, I’ll want to shut anyone’s voice,
While brooding alone on a Bronte moor.

And all the other different colored doors,
Find ways to rest minds gone to war.

– Tom Hall

editors note:

Pick prognosis best matched to malady. Door number one? Door number two? – mh clay

My Manic Meds’ Truth: A Sonnet in Waltz Time

featured in the poetry forum November 17, 2014  :: 0 comments

Make no mistake, its no fun when you’re manic.
When it starts, maybe so, but it soon can turn frantic.
When blindsided by sights it can lead to a panic
I’m writing this way to show its not romantic.

I was in a canoe on a still quiet lake,
So you paddle three times and enjoy the ride.
But when I looked down, it couldn’t be fake,
A small symphony was playing inside.

I couldn’t hear a note, with them all under water,
And I knew down deep that they could not be there.
Just faces and hands that were all in a blur
and then I was past them, but Christ what a scare.

This actually happened because of my meds,
Once more I’d been torn from the reins to my head.

editors note:

A day in the life of a pendulum swinger; symphonically submerged (one, two, three – one, two, three). – mh clay