Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.
Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.
Pulp
they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress
confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought
as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became
his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force
he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform
the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress
Publication History:
The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007
