SadisticYellowBird

All I will do is sit here and stare into the fog.
The cold wind is caressing my skin.
Stones are falling from the sky and all
That I see is the world around me crumble, like I; sinking within.
Withdrawing, we both are, as we prepare for the fall.

Fluid, grotesque, thick, and black is oozing from the brick walls,
The ones that line the alley, while they hastily deteriorate.
Turning to warm colored sand before they’re nothing at all,
I sit and see the rubble try and run; too late.
There was no time to flee, and no one left to call.
They simply dissipate.

My hands are the reflection of the sky,
Cracked and glowing with an eerie violet light.
The cracks, I see them spread, covering even my presence of mind.
Soon nothing will be left but a shell, once more void of life.

Lips, slowly bleeding, shards of glass protruding from the skin, once tender; quietly they tremble.
Tears, like acid, burn bloodshot, porcelain eyes.
The world around me plagued, too, by the invasive wall, will always remember,
How it would stretch for miles; it was just too high.
How the transparent worms, with sleek sides of precious glass rained down forever.

Many a time I have tried, to no avail.
Tried to bring down the wall, or alternately climb.
Gripping, clinging, hoping, fighting the whistling wind which prevailed;
Needless to say each time I fall.

Clusters of black and green clouds infect the dark patches of night,
I split in two, with frozen lips of blue,
Just in time to see that the violent screams of any and all turn quiet.

“Open your heart; I’m coming home.”

Sleep allows the confines of thought the comfort of renewal.
Providing with haste the mannerisms of normality and much rationality in thought.
Though either the wise or the foolish seek the opposite of the above.
The lack of sleep is the source of true, blissful, evasion.
Unbeknownst to most who walk as a withered soul that has lost its merit.
As the state of slumber quietly protrudes through the skin of the feeble and weary,
In their quiet place of contemplation and such an overbearing state of consciousness,
The deeper they sink into the oblivion, black;
Until all at once they are drifting through nothing, and breathing the same.
Seeing all and perceiving what the fully conscious mind knows little of.
Soon they themselves will be left to all that could be explained only as bereft;
They themselves will blow in unison with the faded whistles of the wind.
Becoming one thing, though nothing; still everything.
Thoughts will find no rest in the confines of thought for the meager and dreary.
Or at least this is so until the far off, though nevertheless coming, day when the wind will cease its blowing,
As will the being who chose to bite the hand that feeds; their mind, their fate.
This is the path to be chosen by those who walk in lines of snow and breath in thick air of golden brown,
The one way to seek refuge when all else will push them further down.

“The tedious and mundane will (for all and with the utmost assurance) dig their shallow graves.”

The lights flickered in the now bustling hallway. Busy words were heard as everyone attended to the tedious tasks of the morning. They were going through the rooms collecting patients, as always, to check their vitals, take their medication, and simply to ensure that they were, now, awake. Still seemingly frozen on the ground where I lay, I heard then yelling, and fiercely, at that. “Wake up! Now! If you aren’t up within a minutes time, I swear to God I will give every last one of you in this room a zero; that is, unless you get off your pathetic, lazy asses and wake up!” It was simply baffling that she felt all of that was a necessity when waking a room with a mere two occupants. Luckily, that was across the hall, and not here: I abhor such rude awakenings, regardless of whether or not I’m actually awake or asleep at the time that they present themselves here.
Soon, they would be turning on the lights, full power, until they’re nearly blinding. They’ll stand and watch, with the same look of disgust plastered on their faces from morning to morning, as we make our beds. Following that, they’ll hastily unlock our closets and leave for but a brief moment while we change out of our current outfit, which is most assuredly dirty, and into another (though it more than likely is in need of a wash itself). Here, the laundry is done only once a week, and most of us did not have the luxury of having a parent/guardian bring enough clothing to last us until the next laundry day. Really, the previously mentioned fact is unpleasant in and of itself, but why complain? It isn’t as though anyone here even cares about the state of the clothes that they’re wearing, or anything else for that matter.
Snapping, almost, into a sitting position, I dried my eyes and donned a smile. “Now, to continue with each task of the day, brought by the horrendous and prompt return of the pestilent sun, while rotting in a glorified prison. Lovely.” Sarcasm seemed to be dripping from my voice as I muttered this to myself, far beneath my breath, followed by an incoherent grunt of much discontent.
Awakened by the noise, Candace and Sylvia rose to their feet, almost simultaneously. “Good morning,” I said with a false “cheeriness” about me, and in my voice, spilling out of my chapped lips by the syllable. “Morning,” they sleepily replied, and in near unison. Looking at Jacquelyn’s bed, one could quite easily gain the impression that a fierce tornado had struck in one area, and one only. Jacquelyn, still sleeping, was either oblivious or simply did not mind. She was wrapped up in her blankets, which were every bit as unpleasant as my own, and in such  a way that she looked like a mentally impaired, crazy, little butterfly who was not at all anxious to leave the confines of their cocoon. “Damn, is she still sleeping?” They annoyance in Sylvia’s voice was clear. “Of course,” began Candace, “she’s the only one I’ve ever known to sleep sounder than a brick.” With that being said, I had to add my, unfortunately quite rude, two cents to the matter. “At the very least, she is not jumping around like a damn “tweaker” with a high gone wrong.” The last, my halfway sardonic response, got a laugh from the both of them, and a faint smile of amusement made its way to my lips. Really, it was wrong of me to talk of Jacquelyn in that way. However, I honestly did not care. There were very few moments where she was anything other than a nuisance. Not that I blamed her for it, after all, it was in no way a fault of her own. That girl is perhaps the least stable occupant of this dreaded place. Everyone else here had some presence of mind. Everyone else was nearly perfectly sane. Jacquelyn, on the other hand, seemed to have plunged off into the deep end of murky black waters that one ought not to so much as dip their toes in. Always her attitude was a steady list of extremities; always hungry, always excited, overly sensitive, and not really aware of herself or of anything around here. Dissociation or depersonalization had been taken further with her, breaching the code, and being thrown into the sealed state of psychosis which she now dwells in. All the time we found her talking to people and things that were not there, and at certain times she saw them, identified with their presence, while she was unexplainably oblivious to the presence of those that were actually around her. Her blissful fantasies and haunting memories of things that had never occurred was her reality, and it seemed to me that for her it would be an unfathomable thought that her vision of reality differed from that of any other. At times I wondered if she was aware that she had anything at all “wrong” (said for lack of better term) with her.
Fifteen minutes or so after we had all been awoken, save for the still-sleeping Jacquelyn (she was simply impossible to wake, and the tech’s did not really want her up even if that were not the case), everyone stood in lines alone the two walls of the narrow hallway. The males stood on one side, the females on the other. Fraternizing between the sexes was strictly prohibited. The morning staff was occupied, still, with each thoughtless task. Geoff Marsters (morning male tech. on weekdays) was busy checking the pockets of the males for any form of contraband, while Mellissa Staley (female morning tech. on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays*) was doing the same, but for the opposite gender. The nurse for this shift, Catherine Johnston, was still calling people to check their vitals and, essentially, force them to take their (in some cases completely unneeded) medication. All who stood in line were anxiously awaiting the time when they would allow us to eat our first meal for the day. Roughly three minutes later, they declared this procedure over and escorted us to the dayroom.
On most every morning we received the same stomach-churning breakfast, which consisted of a peculiarly slimy, greasy, undercooked, sausage biscuit, tater tots (also undercooked) softer than air itself, which in the end tasted like absolutely nothing, and our personal choice of either vitamin d or low-fat milk, which always (to me, at least) tasted spoiled. Some here, I’m sure as I myself am included, would have preferred a healthy alternative, or perhaps something that was not simply so revolting. This they refused to offer unless they saw you as one who was grotesquely overweight, in which case they would put you on a diet that I’ve heard described as bland, tasteless, vegetables served in the most meager portions allowed. Perhaps the worst part of this arrangement is that regardless of how many times one may request a change in their diet, such as switching to the diet or to the vegetarian plate, one would not in their own lifetime live to see the day in which this change was granted.
As they passed out trays of food, I stared at the cracks covering the walls as well as the ceiling. We were all seated at our assigned tables in the dayroom, which we almost never left. In the left corner of the room, there was an old television set that looked as though it were straight out of the 1980’s, which rested in an oak stand, the doors of which were presently closed. Underneath the resting spot of the television there were drawers filled with notebook paper, board games, coloring books, blank paper, a book of crossword puzzles, and various drawing utensils. Directly beside this, there was a book shelf filled with novels clearly meant to be read by fourth graders, and featuring no titles of popular books, which would have been nice regardless of the simplicity and child-like nature of the novels themselves. This, sadly, was due to the fact that most of the patients admitted here are lacking, if not in one way than in another, in intelligence. Most, in fact, were not even able to clearly read the books at this level. However, there were the seldom few that did not find their troubles from drug and anger issues, nor did they find them in a learning disability that mingled well with depression, and therefore they were able to handle those books as well as much, much more advanced reading. There was nothing more on that wall. In the right corner, there was the kitchen/medication area. All throughout this small room were tables and chairs, made of oak that easily matched the television stand and bookshelf. There are five four-corner tables set in a row, each with eight hard chairs to match. Along the walls were more chairs, of the same build, etc., for the new arrivals to sit. They would stay there until they had moved on from the initial “Safety” level, which could be completed by simply filling out an interrogative form that asked numerous extremely personal questions, and would be read aloud by the patient. Whoever it was that created these forms seemed to be hell bent on creating an environment of embarrassment. Most did not even wish to reveal to others why they had been sent here, much less answer questions of this nature in front of a group filled with people who did not know their name, and vice versa. The level system here is quite simple, really. One can move up after filling out more paperwork similar in nature, receiving decent scores on their point sheet, and displaying an almost unhealthily positive attitude at all hours of the day. In a way, it was the psychiatric hospitals equivalent of a hierarchy. There were five levels, the lowest being Safety, the highest being what they referred to as Black level. They identified the specific level one is on by the color. In chronological order, the levels are Safety, White, Yellow, Blue, and Black. Each comes with its own set of extended privileges. For instance, one who is on Safety may not, essentially, do anything. One who is on the Black level may choose to go to their room during any free time if they so wish, as well as play a radio, and read. Personally, I did not care, and had only taken the time to promote myself to the White level. With Christmas coming soon, I’ll not be in the right sort of spirits to bother with any of their asinine and arbitrary rankings, or even regulations, anyhow. No snow had yet fallen from the sky, but the feeling of the holiday was in the air, and I would not be returning home. This only made worse the feelings I had harbored beneath my skin for so long.
In my short time here, I had found that the mornings were the worst. Having this constant reminder, like a storm cloud residing above my head, though perhaps not my head alone, and never ceasing to drench every inch of me with its fierce rain. Yes, this served as a constant reminder that I would never be released, ever.  Or, so this was my perception on the matter. Under no circumstance, it seemed, would they send me away and leave me be. I’d tried the only tactics I could think of. At first, I was truthful. I had sincerely hoped that perhaps they would release me at some point if I seemed cooperative enough, and if they saw real progress. The only result from this tactic is that everyone seemed to be of the opinion that I was getting “worse.” In all honesty, that was true. Being locked in here made me feel as though I was lower than a criminal, and quite frankly I would rather spend the rest of my days rotting in a prison cell than in a psychiatric hospital.  The act of faking any and all emotions that I was supposed to have in lieu of progress seemed to be the best way to go. Yet, none of these things served me as a form of aid in this situation. They would not believe anything that was spoken by me for so much as one moment; even at the beginning, when I was blatantly telling the truth.  Still, I tried. Day after day I learned how to better apply a masking smile, avoid questioning by any and all, and seem as though I was doing my utmost to work my “treatment.” Everything I would ever do seemed to be in vain. Now, being so stubborn as I am, I am simply dead set on making none of their alleged “progress” whatsoever, and not only that but I fully intend to continue with my plans from before I was locked away, a bird in her cage.

“Reality can never be fully present, and to most it does not present itself at all.”

As I awoke to a still black sky, I found myself nearly alone in the room where the night before I had laid my head. The world around me seemed to be paused. Chilling clarity flowed off of everything and, as always, the walls seemed to be bleeding translucent, foul smelling, optimism from every one of the numerous cracks that lined the ceiling and walls. In this room, there were four beds, all of which were occupied. Along the wall facing the opposite direction of our beds, there were locked closets, standing in a line, stance in attention. There was also a door, which led to the restroom. The window panes filled with bullet proof glass and adorned with faded blue curtains sat across the room, and as it stared through its nonexistence, I would swear that it was mocking me. Most every day, it would reveal a pristine blue sky with trees covered in moss and bearing leaves that were far too green to match. Today, however, the sky was dull and grey, and the sky was simply overrun with clouds.
Gathering myself, as with any other task here, appeared simplistic, yet proved to be exceedingly difficult. No matter what I did, what I thought, or how I so silently pleaded indifference, the harsh realization of where I was, and why, refused to do anything other than hammer itself into my brain. With this on my mind, I simply sat there and stared into thin air, looking at everything and nothing all at once, all the same.
For around an hour I sat in that place, oblivious to anything going on around me. Though, in what felt like only a moment later, I lifted up my resting head and observed the dreary rooms other occupants. From the looks of them, I concluded that my three roommates (Candace, Sylvia, and Jacquelyn) were still locked in quiet slumber. By the color of the sky and the absolute lack of noise, I could also conclude that there were roughly two hours left before they would wake us. Cringing internally as I was, because the nonexistent wind blew through my feeble limbs and rang hollow, strenuously silent tears began rolling down my troubled, blushing cheeks. Reminiscing on what was merely a dream, reality had fain set in. If only for but a brief moment, it had seemed as though I had truly been set free, and therefore became as free as the singing bird, delicately gliding through the luminous sky. Though, in all reality, I had never left and all that I had hoped were true was mere fabrication of mind.

“To be a prisoner, self-proclaimed, is to realize the fate and defects of mankind since the first moment when it had shown its face.”

Moving to sit down on my poor excuse for a bed, I knew that I lacked the strength, really to do so little as that. With that, I knew as well that I did not care if I collapsed on the ground in a lifeless heap. Much as I had guessed, that was nearly precisely what happened.
Lying there, as I was, I quietly sighed. Oddly familiar was the now present feeling; remorse, guilt, shame, and of all things I felt as though the life had been drained out of me. Teetering on the brink of insanity, I seemed, as could be said for each passing day. Emotionless and cold for each true stare at the walls, as the reflection of my soul, that was equally bare. Sufficiency would be the mundane whispers that passed my own lips in another dimension, while here the words, once spoken to me by others and some proclaimed by I, were never to escape the tedious realms of thought. “You’ll never amount to anything.” “Worthless.” “Now that you’re here, you’ll never leave.” “The endless stay in a prison of one’s own making.” “You’ll never get out.” “We’ll make sure you’re here for a long time.” “Prisoner.” “You can never escape…never escape … never escape … never escape … NEVER ESCAPE!” Sharp, hideous, laughter then was running through my mind, and it could truly be called a fabrication, a lie, and as such it is one of my own making.

All emotions spreading, hitting all at once.
Candles lit, with wax and wicks, that are slowly dripping,
And the flames are blown quiet by dust.

Faded memories, dead and unexplained,
They plague the mind, and infect the brain.
They spin and spin around the head,
Merrily dancing, filling their chambers with dread.
Faded memories, once fresh and new,
Dead and old as they are, they’ve somehow been renewed.

All strings of existence with its golden pleasures,
Presently covering the gold in mold and filling the air with a damp aroma,
Cut short by the hands of fate attached to the three sisters.

In all those moments where freedom is denied,
In all the pain that is locked up, confined.
The words that come are nothing but choking lines,
The words that are spoken are nothing but lies.

With everything done, and everything passed,
Mediocrity stands as clarity fades fast.
All that is felt, spoken, or believed,
All simply classified as the words of thieves.
With everything done, some things will always last,
The shame, the rain, and the broken shards of glass.
All that is done is a travesty from a trap,
All simply used to cover the straps,
So binding, they are, so simple and plain.
Keeping us here throughout all dismay.
Refusing to leave until the game we have played,
Is rightfully lost to the oblique and grey.

In all those years, those days gone by,
In all those moments, like smoke, that sting the eye,
The memory fades and the meaning decays.
The memory is lost, and forever slips away.

Everything and nothing, they are the same.

Shadows-Ch. II

“Dreams are the minds interpretation of the souls anguish.”

           There was a cloudy blue sky, partially covered by the mountains that completely surrounded me. The sun shone brightly, and there was a fire orange reflection on the grimy water with a color that mixed mud brown and chlorine induced blue. There was a stretch of land that circled the lake in all directions, and the closer one went to the water, the more the rocks had a tendency to replace the earth beneath them. No one but I could be seen, or found, in this deserted and untouched area. It was a lovely place, but the thick fog that swarmed around my feet was nearly enough to overshadow its beauty.
           As I walked closer to the water, the wind blew my raven black tresses to and fro, and I could feel the moderately warm midday wind caressing my pale, blushing cheeks. The light of the sky sparkled through my deep green eyes, and I knew this only because of the water’s clarity of my reflection. Here it seemed that I could breathe, and in breathing in the freshest air I finally felt free. Finally, it felt as though I was no longer a prisoner, of my making or that of any other. Despite all of this, my ecstatic mind was turned from clear skies to stormy grey. My role had changed from the one who basked in all things that brought pleasure, and natural beauty, to sinking into the grounds of endless turmoil. All I could think was that everything around me was simply too good to be true, and so I no longer felt the joy I had previously upon arriving to this wondrous place. Though, what did I care? Nothing here was anything other than peaceful and so mystifyingly, almost eerily, serene.
    In the sides of the mountains which stood tall before me like Mother Nature’s sky scrapers, I could quite clearly make out a trail that would have never had any origin whatsoever if the former inhabitants had not trodden the same steps so many times before. This path, I presumed, would take me further, into the heart of the mountains. Slowly and almost reluctantly I decided to make my way into the misty mountain tops, following the footsteps left in the dirt all the way.
    Along my walk, I seemed to be gliding in between the trees of redwood and evergreen. What an exquisitely tranquil place was this heavily forested wonderland. As I walked along, I could hear such quiet whispers, and the words that they were speaking (much like the perhaps nonexistent ones who were doing the whispering) were not easy to define. They were nearly completely inaudible. However, the further I went the louder they became. Throughout this all, I had noticed a black crow flying swiftly in front of me, as if trying to lead my way, and if I were to stray from the path it would once again pass me by, though still hovering closely. At times it would do its utmost to straighten my direction, and silently persuade me to return to my path, by giving me a menacing glare. The crow was so black that it had tiny flints of blue throughout the feathers if the sun hit them just right, and its eyes were a misty grey. The eyes mimicked that of a human, and even from a faraway glance one could tell that they were brimming with sorrow. The voices grew louder still, and quite uncomfortably so. In my ears, aside from the echoing voices which had now turned to raging screams, I could hear a soft, melancholy melody. The sound alone was the truest definition of beauty, as it almost seemed to sway, filling the heart with hope before bringing about dismay. All the while the music seems to possess my soul, like a restless spirit caught in between life and death.  Presumably, the sound was coming from an old violin, with small traces of a cello being played. Sitting down, I couldn’t help but notice that the shadow I had seen, and still saw, on the ground beneath me was not my own, and seemed to have glowing eyes that were staring straight through me.

The literal deflection,
Broken-promise dreams.
The cascading hope,
Rippling with the stream.

A never-ending tale,
Repeat and repeat again.
Like an ever present gale,
The breeze does all entail.

A path to guide the sail,
A ceaseless onward march.
Triangular and somehow phosphorescent,
Moving straight as an arrows descendant.

Talking fills deaf ears,
The story will unfurl,
Albeit it is not,
But a farce in this world.

On the banks of a riverbed,
The two lovers were led.
One spoke of love,
The other spoke of dread.
They laid on separate sands,
Lived off of the land.
Until the one drowned,
Near the river where he fed.

The other was the embodiment,
Of straight and true remorse.
They’d lived as though immortal,
Or as though for death they were not the sort.
A farce or tragedy?
To die for company.
Abandoned and alone,
Fallen from her throne.

With the souls mate gone,
She sang her weary song,
A knife to guide the tune.
Before she’d rest her head,
Beneath the water, as it turned red.

The literal demise,
A vulnerable sunrise.
The last shreds of the stories seeds,
Overrun with weeds.

A never-ending tale,
The limbs will rest as frail.
A white sort of luster creeping on the lips,
Rotting, then back to dust, in spirit alive again.

Somewhere someone is dying.
The reaper come to call for their soul, his price.
Somewhere someone is dying.

Beneath a shallow hiss the winds are calling,
“Bring back the burn, the imprint, the scalding.”
Beneath such shallow laughter words are falling,
Dropping, seeping from the mouth, drooling,
Falling down the welted scars of time and,
Before the eye the skin is shedding, tearing, none will see for all it’s fooling.

Somewhere someone is dying.
The end has come, the scythe deforms the vice.
Somewhere someone is dying.

Tears somehow are falling,
The soul has set to rotting,
The skin has set to burning,
Eyes have melted from the heat of the fire’s ring.
Caressing and possessing; the tears, indeed, are falling.
Acidic with a foul stench, and death has finally come a calling.

Somewhere someone is dying.
Their ashes on the ground say otherwise.
Somewhere someone is dead.