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Untitled Anthem The course of my youth flowered and faded; even in its bloom it flew a false flag over the face of my true feelings, and curved my consciousness inward to implode on the load of my psyche. When I couldn’t act successfully I felt the impact distressfully, and in the search for stillness an illness was born. But what’s born in the morning of life, and fed by the fuel of strife, can break the bounds of life itself or make the rounds to find some health. Being of unsound mind and groundless body, losing the kindness, choosing the naughty, the soul takes a toll in the messes and recesses of a hole in the heart. Enter psychiatry, an art. Refashioning passion from flames drenched in shame, igniting the spark that alights in the dark, bending the brain to a chemical chain that seizes disease in the depths where it drains the force of one’s course to the puddles of pain...enter remorse and the signs of the mind diagnosed through discourse, the bind of the brave in a grind towards the grave that awakes to the quakes that quiver the quiet and bid them to riot a reckless release in their quest for true peace. Thus empty the M.D. of each therapy and by the end comprehend how to send malady a message of might with a vestige of fright that molds to the meaning of life gone not right. Tis swell to be well but the hell where we dwell can only be free when we gather to see from our perch on the pain that to leave in the lurch those still loved but less sane would be to besmirch the growth of our gain. Oh say can you see we ne4ed advocacy to set things aright by the dawn’s early light. So let us not fester in feelings unfair, or we’ll be the jester and they’ll give the glare. No sense in a stare that’s a pretense for pride; we’ll frame our defense naming those who have died. By noon they’ll be lunch and a singin’ our tune; the sound of the crunch may confound us, but croon on we must in this land of disgust, where victims of venom must dine on mistrust. The snake in our snare may recoil in its scare; beware what we take from the soil in our dare. So skillful our strategies, so willful our ways; no pill foul of poison will puncture our praise. Sing high to the heavens, hear low to the ground; bring nigh the notions of emotions unsound. We’ll lurk in our quirks and devour their power, as science just smirks our reliance will shower.
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