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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 5 of 5. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Mr. Scott on July 1, 2001, at 21:23:18
Most of my depressive poetry is about myself as I am deeply narcisistic.. This one however is not.. it's about a friend of mine who developed Bi-polar disorder several years ago. It's brutal, so don't read it if your not fully anesthetized on pills like I mostly am.
There aint a doctor in the city that can help this princey pretty.His face abound with bloat, mind drowning in the moat.
Hatred of the things we used to love, and lost in a sea of twisted shadowy facts, his protective barrier lost or cracked.
He may one day ride that train, to a place that’s free of pain, at least in theory.But on this grand summer day when the world cheered for hot dogs and plastic cups of beer he stayed within himself..Alone on a brown couch.
Half dulled and partially awake with shards of a broken life strewn like leaves in fall around him as he sat, contemplating the same old things the same old way one more time.Tense about those meaningless things, stuck in a place that hates…All alone.
Unable to appreciate for any length of time a fine slated table or even a success.
Only visions narrow and sorrowful where control is bought and sold like a commodity.Couldn’t you see beneath his skin and the layers of water and fat? Didn’t you see who he wanted to be…if only.
And of course there was the screaming and flailing of a small fury animal being slowly electrocuted in a bramble of hot wires. But nobody was there to hear it.Scott
Posted by kazoo on July 2, 2001, at 0:42:58
In reply to Depressing Poetry , posted by Mr. Scott on July 1, 2001, at 21:23:18
Dear Mr. Scott:
The dilithium crystals are for the warp drives only, and are *not* to be encapsulated and injested.
> He may one day ride that train, to a place that’s free of pain, at least in theory.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
In "theory"?"Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
the Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality."Maybe you can help me out with something, because I just don't get it!
What did Emily Dickinson, who only left her house twice in her entire life, know about Life, Eternity and Immortality that most people don't even come near to understanding?
What did this simple, unassuming, selfless, mousy wall-flower "see" and "feel" that most miss (myself included, of course)?
I don't get it either, Mr. Scott, so you are not alone.
> Couldn’t you see beneath his skin and the layers of water and fat? Didn’t you see who he wanted to be…if only.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^
If only what?I see we have a self-image problem here, but don't fret, everybody does in one way or another. Look at it this way: suppose you were a Hollywood actor and *had* to retain a particular image, but could not? Pity the poor celluloid hero? No way and fuggetaboudit. We do have some control as to whom we wish to be, or how we "see" ourselves. No excuses. Sometimes you have to grab the bull by its horns and twist until it growls "Nyet!"
Also ... it's sometimes better not to think.
(a think-less) kazoo
Posted by Anna Laura on July 2, 2001, at 0:54:05
In reply to Depressing Poetry , posted by Mr. Scott on July 1, 2001, at 21:23:18
>
> Most of my depressive poetry is about myself as I am deeply narcisistic.. This one however is not.. it's about a friend of mine who developed Bi-polar disorder several years ago. It's brutal, so don't read it if your not fully anesthetized on pills like I mostly am.
>
>
>
>
> There aint a doctor in the city that can help this princey pretty.
>
> His face abound with bloat, mind drowning in the moat.
> Hatred of the things we used to love, and lost in a sea of twisted shadowy facts, his protective barrier lost or cracked.
> He may one day ride that train, to a place that’s free of pain, at least in theory.
>
> But on this grand summer day when the world cheered for hot dogs and plastic cups of beer he stayed within himself..Alone on a brown couch.
> Half dulled and partially awake with shards of a broken life strewn like leaves in fall around him as he sat, contemplating the same old things the same old way one more time.
>
> Tense about those meaningless things, stuck in a place that hates…All alone.
> Unable to appreciate for any length of time a fine slated table or even a success.
> Only visions narrow and sorrowful where control is bought and sold like a commodity.
>
> Couldn’t you see beneath his skin and the layers of water and fat? Didn’t you see who he wanted to be…if only.
> And of course there was the screaming and flailing of a small fury animal being slowly electrocuted in a bramble of hot wires. But nobody was there to hear it.
>
> Scott
Unfortunately, i'm not so good at translating my poems in to english language (i'm afraid they would sound sort of funny).
That's why i decided to send this poem instead: it's from Dylan Thomas: it's called Twenty-four years and i think it fits perfectly my emotional state when i was 24.Twenty-four years
Twenty-four years remind me the tears of my eyes.
(bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance for as long as forever is.Dylan Thomas
Posted by Mr.Scott on July 2, 2001, at 14:03:23
In reply to Re: Depressing Poetry for the teeming masses, posted by kazoo on July 2, 2001, at 0:42:58
Thanks for the criticism! Are you another one those depressed intellectual English majors or something?? I was describing a guy who gained about 50 pounds on Depakote and Risperdal.
Posted by Mr.Scott on July 2, 2001, at 14:04:33
In reply to Re: Depressing Poetry , posted by Anna Laura on July 2, 2001, at 0:54:05
Wow! He's good!
This is the end of the thread.
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