Thought Police

Everything is a story
That my mind creates
Connecting coincidence
Interpretation takes precedence
Transitions from description to dictation
I navigate a self-created narrative
That deforms the trajectory of my steps

The story is too surreal for paper
To voice it, would be aberrant
Compulsively structured ideas
I can’t select the thoughts
that appear in my consciousness
Please tell me that I am not to blame
Tell it to the Thought-Police

By: Maria Kesa

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Magic Love

“Life’s logic is found in the mysterious equations
of love.” John Forbes Nash

No other illness is stricken,
with a constant cold winter, to become a
wrestler of thoughts, beaten by his
own mind, worked by the strings of puppet God’s.
Love is a voyage of discovery.
A journey of faith, where
the bells of insanity
and divinity toll, as life’s
logic graces that child for
whom couldn’t prepare for an
orange sky.

David Holloway (c)

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War

Arguing and yelling
Doubting and threatening
Typical
Battle of the voices
I’m dying to stop the noises
Overdose?
Maybe so
End my life
Win the war
Victory!
No!
Prozac is in store
60mg pop em and swallow
My life routine
Someone save me,
This internal battle
Will be the end of me
They won
My life
The war

By: Keisha

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They’re Just Flowers

I’d had another
pointless and
futile
argument
with my
mother in the
living room.

It was about not taking my
medication. I hated
myself for being
pedantic and
petit.

She’s a woman of
experience, and at
her maturity
she’s had
time to know
my faults. Her patience
was tested for the
billionth
time.

My mum
was only
being considerate
and loving.

The truth is
when a child has schizophrenia,
it is usually the mother
who takes the
mountain of
responsibility, and has to
take care of their
loved ones.

My head was filled
with paranoia, and
I thought she
was evil, but oh how
wrong could her
son be?

As I dialled the
number I didn’t really
understand the
point of them:
flowers.

But when the
florist
arrived, I was taken
aback by the smile
all over
her boundless face.
In one moment
I had said more
than

sorry,
or thank you,
expressed more
than gratitude,
and that of
forgiveness.

And as she
placed them
in a vase. I pondered,
on what they
had
embodied, a bunch of
fine aroma’s, with
hollow green stems
and colourful
trumpets,
maybe,

except to her
they
were the
answer to
every
argument we’d
ever had,
and, all those
words I didn’t
mean. To her they
were more
than a bunch of flowers,
for not one
word, that comes from a
son’s reckless mouth,
could fill the gaps
between his
heart, and the empty
hollow stems
of man.

David Holloway

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