Category Archives: Poems

The Night Sky

Brutal. All I can say.

The night sky is an ex-cutter
Similar to me
But like bread without it’s butter
Without cutting I just wouldn’t be

The proof comes from the stars
Way up in the sky
They’re like the nighttime’s scars
I know the night has tried

I have tried to kill myself
I have tried to bleed
I keep my razor on the shelf
Just in case I need

Surrounded by a smile
But frightened by the sound
Aimlessly wandering miles
Lost, and not yet found

So, am I really just like you?
Am I not so strange?
Are you also going through
Something we both know we can’t change?

Does the night make cutting seem alright?
Is it normal now?
Am I really like the night
At the final curtain bow?

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Get Out of My Head

Will you please just get out of my head
So I can finally go off to bed?
I’m trying to go on, but it’s just as well
That I admit that I’m going through hell.
My head is spinning, on and on
In this game of chess I am only a pawn.
Slits on my wrists, blood on my leg
Treading so careful, like on an egg.
So I try to go on, I try not to cry
I sit and I watch as these days go on by.
Sure I’ve got family, sure I’ve got friends
But are they the ones who will stay till the end?
Do they understand voices, the ones that I hear?
The ones in my head, but come in through my ear?
Spinning and spinning, going around
I think I was lost, I think I am found.
So, I hear voices, I think you get that
They tell me of blood, of a black, lonely rat
They tell me to cut, they tell me to cry
They tell me it’s the last time I’ll see the sky
They tell me I’m worthless, they tell me I’m bad
All that they tell me makes me so sad
The one thing I have against them is hope
I have hope I can climb this slippery slope
So, the days go on, I’m not in so much Hell
I used to be shy, but have come out of my shell.

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I Am That Girl

I am that girl
Who keeps her head down
I am that girl
Who hides from her frown

I am that girl
With the beautiful smile
I am that girl
You’ve known for a while

I am that girl
With sparkling eyes
I am a girl
With lows and with highs

I am that girl
You wish you knew
I am that girl
With mud on her shoe

I am that girl
You see all around
I am that girl
Who was lost but is found

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You Will Forever Be My Hero

Experimenting with both acrostic and rhyming. Like it?

You will forever be my hero.
Over mountains.
Under skies.

Will you let me admit that
I really need someone to
Love? And, will you let me admit that I
Love you? That I will love you now and

Forever?
Over mountains, under skies,
Round bends and despite cries?
Every day I wake
Very tired and alone
Every day I wake
Really, my mind is blown.

By the time I reach reality
Everyone else knows I’m weird.

My state is one of insanity
You’re everything I’ve feared.

Hero, tell me, are you?
Every day or every night?
Round mistaken turns and bends
Oh, we both will be alright.

~Patricia

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PPAL Poem

Every other week there is a program near my home called YAYA, which is short for Young Adults and Youth Advocacy. We get together for an hour and a half and talk together and learn about life and advocating for ourselves. A woman came and talked to us about SATs, and another came and informed us about City Year. Sometimes we just play board games and eat pizza. It’s pretty cool.
YAYA, along with several other youth groups, is run by the Parent/Professional Advocacy League, which is having a conference in a couple of weeks. I will be selling my book at the conference, and wrote this poem about PPAL.

I thought I was alone.
No longer in that high school
Only fifty students.
All sort of friends.

I thought I was alone.
Now in college
Thousands of students around me
But no friends.

I thought I was alone
Just turned nineteen
Darkness prevailed.

I thought I was alone
Maybe meadows
But no flowers
All crying
No hope.

I thought I was alone
But I found others in YAYA
Young Adults.
Youths.
Advocating.

I thought I was alone
Still a teen.
They talk about TEAMA.
Teens.
Educating About Mental Awareness.
Educating.
Maybe I’m not so alone.

I thought I was alone.
But they helped me find HOPE.
They helped me find me.
They’ll help you find YOU.
Or TEAMA.
Or YAYA.
Or HOPE.
I know I’m not alone.
And PPAL told me this.

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Soup Cans

I was going through some old notebooks and found this. Kinda inspiring. No idea when I wrote it.

Soup cans:
You can tell
From the outside.
Labels don’t lie.
“Chicken Soup”
Always means
The same thing.
You can pick
And you can choose
Just based on the label.
Just based on the appearance.

People:
You can’t tell
Without talking.
Without knowing them.
Appearances can lie.
Experiences can lie.
Wearing black
Doesn’t mean
I will act a certain way.
You have to taste
Every person
To know
If you like them or not.
You can’t just guess
By what they look like
Or how they dress.

Friends:
Can be
Sweet, sour
Best, worst
Old, new
Lost, found,
False, true
You and your friends
Could be mirrors
Or could be opposites.

Soup cans:
Labels don’t lie.

~Patricia

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Lonely

A couple of weeks ago Ron Coleman and Paul Baker came to the States from the UK. Ron has been hearing voices for quite a while, and gave a wonderful speech about his past and hearing voices. He asked voice-hearers in the audience if anyone had noticed that their voices started as friends then turned against them, and I raised my hand. Noticing me, he grilled me for a couple of minutes about my voices in front of the whole crowd. It sure was stressful, but I survived.
Ron told a story about being lonely when his meds made his voices go away. Thinking that he would enjoy it, I gave him a copy of my book, with this poem, Lonely, dog-eared. He quickly read it, and left me with the sentiment, “I relate to every word in this poem”. I’d like to share it with you all now.

I’ll be lonely when they change
They’ll take my friends away
My true friends who are always there
Here, there, or anywhere
They help me get to sleep
Keep me company when I wake
Truer friends than these
You just cannot make.
I don’t need a phone
When they come to call
Don’t need a doorbell
Nothing at all
Truer friends than these
You just cannot make
No tokens of your friendship
No brownies to bake
What differs these from “real” friends
Is that they’re always there
On a train, on a bus,
Nearly anywhere
Truer friends than these
You just can’t make
When it comes to keeping company
Everyone else is in their wake.
And although they’re often violent
And I know that that is bad
I’d rather them than nothing
Without them I am sad
And although they’re only voices
They’re very real to me
And if I had it MY way
We’d all just let them be.

Patricia

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The Endless Quest for Company

Ever feel lonely? I do. Often. Sometimes you can be alone without being lonely, but I find that most of the time I’m alone I’m in an endless quest for company.

The endless quest for company, when all I want is to feel
His hand on mine. And if my quest does reach an
End, is it really the

End, or is it only
Near the end? But, as these
Dreary,
Lonely days go by I find that my
Ears won’t stop ringing. The
Sound really disturbs me. But
Should I continue to try to find happiness, or company? And, is it odd or

Queer that when I feel
Under the weather the only thing I want to do is
End this endless quest for company, because it makes me
Sad. Sad. Sad,
To no end. And when I’m sad, or nearing the end of this

Frightful quest for company, I know only
One thing for certain. That I am not alone in this journey.
Really. I know I’m not. I’m

Certain
Of it. Because the day
May drag on and on, but eventually I will appreciate one
Part of it.
At least one part of it, hopefully more.
No. I will not give in to the voices that plague my mind.
You, as well, are on an endless quest for company.

Patricia

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Underwater

I don’t like water much. Well, showers I like, but swimming is just too… wet. This poem isn’t really about being underwater. It’s about needing a friend. Cause everyone needs a friend.

Underwater

I am underwater.
Trying to break the surface.
So close to the surface.
But it will not come.
I am underwater.
Needing a breath of air.
My lungs feel as if they are about to explode
If I can’t get to the surface.
The surface that is so close
That I can see it.
I am underwater.
And I know that to live
I have to reach the elusive surface.
But for some reason
It won’t come.
I am underwater.
But I feel an outside force.
Not my legs, kicking at the cold liquid.
Not my arms, scooping at the water.
Not my buoyancy, pulling me up.
But a friend.
I am underwater.
But you pulled me up
To where I can see.
Where I can breathe.
Where I am really alive.

Patricia

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My Watch Ticks

I wrote this poem in class in high school. I don’t often question authority. I’m usually pretty compliant. Really, though. Who can say exactly what time is? I don’t think that anyone has that authority. I end lots of my poems with “But I hope the answer is yes.” I really do hope that life is not chaos. Chaos is too… chaotic.

My Watch Ticks

My watch ticks
Counting the time
My watch ticks without fail
A silly trick
This watch just ticking
For who is to say what exactly time is?
My teacher, perhaps?
Is that why classes are so long?
My mother, perhaps?
Is that why curfew is so soon?
My sister?
Is that why I get such little time with the remote?
The television people themselves?
My watch?
The alarm clock?
The timer?

My foot beats to the music
As I blast my favorite song
The beat is the heart of the music
It’s why awful songs are so long
But maybe instead of being kind, and givers of life
These musicians just suck it out of us
To give the music life
Greedy stealers?
Taking our time away?
Do they run time?

Do they steal my rhyme?
Making life but killing art
Who says anything has to rhyme?
Who says anything about anything?
Who has the right to say anything?
What is the definition of authority?
Who has the authority to write a definition?
Who has the authority to write anything?
What a world it would be
If my poems… weren’t?
Music is poetry
What if music… wasn’t?
Or time had no rules?

Do we have chaos?
Do we not?

I don’t know
But I hope the answer is yes

Patricia

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