Ahh . . .
I love the idea of
I've only read half of
The Bell Jar, but yet
I love Sylvia Plath.
The more you read of someone
The less you can romanticize about them;
Except for Bud Light & Bukowski,
I'd rather keep their words inked to page.
And editor said, "It would be more interesting to read about the
Origin of, not the present state of,
Well . . .
I'd like to understand the root of it
But until you pick apart and
Buy my beauties from me,
I cannot fund such analysis.
How narcissistic is mental illness . . .
Hours of therapy, premium drugs, and
Thousands to find out
How badly Mother & Father
Damaged you. While there are
Beaten prostitutes, like my sister Desiree.
Single alcoholic mothers, like my sister Marie.
And it's amazing what the mind is capable of
How much it will repress.
Freud said our conscious mind is like the
Tip of an iceberg. While the subconscious mind is
The other 80%, buried deep down
And it is the forgotten memories which haunt,
Causing anxiety daily, without you knowing.
And that's what my family is.
Knowing your own sister sucks dick, gets beaten by pimps in order to
Smoke crack &
Shoot dope in order to
Escape her own life, disables mine
Subconsciously. Thousands I must spend on my
Pompous mind just to feel real, while there are
Starving children and
Pretty girls on tv telling me
I should donate to save the crying animals as well,
Well, 10/10 I will choose me because
I cannot control the kittens or the whores
My family is blood but the river steadily streams,
Hopefully I can fix me before I
& I was watching youtube videos by RawSammi
& She was boring me and so
I envisioned my own world
I first thought, how nice it would be
If I had the disposable income to
Tear my house apart, everytime mania hit
Throw lamps threw walls and TV's out windows.
And then a second thought invaded me
Flooded through me, How lucky I was!
I envisioned what my 1st hospital stay would be like,
One of the mental nature. I have
Romanticized this deeply. Damn you, Vizzini and the likes
. . . I would be wearing dress shirt and tie
As to look more sane than the (in)sane, yes!
To prove them wrong when, mania hit and, I wanted not
To be trapped in there anymore, I shouted
"I'm a grown man! Let me out!" to no avail
They rushed me with anvils in hand
I fought them ferociously, verociously, my mind made things up then
I was a fighter then
Punching the black man in the face. I had never punched a
Man before. I awoke later in a bed
Strapped. My panic returned.
It was 9 days later that my release was
Finalized and here I sit
Steady type-type-typing as the bats steady
Rap-rap-rap, rip apart my brain matter, as I
Take scissor to bracelet. Dive down and
Bleeding this to you.
Daniel N. Flanagan is a Worcester, MA native. He is the author of the short story "Daddy's Girl," located in The Commonline Journal, and sixteen poems, featured in Poppy Road Review, Three Line Poetry, and more. He has five stories and six poems scheduled for publication by various journals, including Stone Path Review. Check him out at www.DanFlanagan.webs.com and follow him @DanielNFlanagan.