This poem I wrote is about my experience in a kind-of-mental-hospital when I was in my early teens, thus beginning my "depression" and "need" to take drugs like Abilify. I was fortunately good enough not to go into the "padded room." I got more than just bread and water. I never have worn a straitjacket, I didn't hear voices in my head, either, but i did slit my wrists. Kind of silly now that I think about it. I mean, if I really wanted to die, I'd just take a whole bottle of tylenol with a jug of wine. Unfortunately, my mom doesn't like hard liquor, so hopefully wine would be strong enough to do the job. I might just write a poem describing my entire life, from the time when I was born up until the present. This would be stuck somewhere in the middle (right now at least.)

as i awaken from my slumber

i find myself in a padded room

the same one where i spent many nights before

and as i sit upon the floor

there is nothing I’d like more

than the pain to go away

i tried to commit suicide

and just because i haven’t died

they stick me here and throw away the key

just because they’ll never see

why it sucks to be me

those damn doctors are going to pay

so all you do is slap a jacket on

one with straps so i won’t be gone

death would sure be nice

but i cannot think twice

i need to think life will suffice

cuz that’s what “normal” people say

i get my daily bread and water

and the room is getting hotter

just because i want to die

i am such a last-class guy

and all i do is sit and sigh

every single fucking day

i am such a troubled teen

the worst case the doctors have ever seen

and when the day is done

and when to rest down goes the sun

i have finally begun

to sleep and sleep is so OK

dream of demons down in Hell

everything is going well

as i watch mr. doctor liar

burning in the lake of fire

my spirits are so higher

and in the dream i want to stay

but i am rustled from my sleep

by some stupid dumb nurse creep

it is time to go to therapy.

as i make my way down the hall

i hear the voices call

the voices in my head

say they want me dead

when i slit my wrists they bled

i did it just to keep the noise at bay

so i sit there on the couch

i start to gaze i start to slouch

my eyes glazed over i’m a grouch

and as they go across the room

one by one they speak of doom

they list the reasons why they’re here

with me in the room of fear

and as i shed a tear

i feel like the prey

when they finally come to me

i say i have suicidal tendencies

and i explain my case to them

telling all just what i am

and where my problems stem

and when i’m done i think hooray

and as the doctors ramble on

i wish that my life was gone

i don’t listen to a word

all their thoughts are so absurd

why do they treat me like a turd

wipe me off with a bidet

and as i go back to my bed

still wishing that i was dead

the floor beneath me it does creak

not a word do i speak

cuz my future’s looking bleak

i crawl onto my bed and lay

and as i look outside i see

all the “normal” people walking free

holding umbrellas for the rain

even though their lives are plain

i bet they have no pain

as the clouds are turning gray

i close my eyes and dream awhile

dream out of this place so vile

what good is keeping me here?

i wish the docs would make it clear

and my “sad” thoughts disappear

why must the rules of normalcy i obey?

there’s no hope of leaving this place

the frown will stay upon my face

why do they want me to suffer so?

i’d be happier if i got to go

doctors, what do they know

about the games we have to play?