Poems by Brian P

One pill, two pills, three pills, four.
The children are counting Xanax pills they pick off the floor.

Mommy's sister committed suicide in 2009; that's when this all started.
She's in the corner crying like a young girl so incredibly broken-hearted.
Her husband was a heroin addict; he left them a long time ago.
Now depression and anxiety are the only emotions the children show.
She did not start doing drugs for fun; it was only after her reality shattered,
But it all ends the same way; her reason for starting no longer mattered.
She went to her counseling sessions once a week.
She spent most of the session crying too hard to speak.

One pill, two pills, three pills, four.
The children tell the teachers they can't eat because they're poor.

Mommy makes a lot of money, but the money never makes it home.
She has zero friends but 6 drug dealers programmed into her phone.
She'll give them anything for a fix, even if it's her own body.
Parents set the example for the children; it's your life they will copy.
She thought it was just a temporary solution and she'd be able to quit,
But she didn't find a solution, just another problem added to the list.
She wanted to give her children the life she never had.
Instead, she emotionally abandoned them the same way as their dad.

One pill, two pills, three pills, four.
Child Protective Services is at the front door.

Mommy's pushing pill bottles under the couch as the bell continues to ring.
CPS's intentions were good, but in the end it was only more pain they would bring.
What's a child without their parents, a child in a foster home?
Proof of a broken society, children who are forced to go through this alone.
Electricity had been shut off for months; she frantically scrambles for matches to light a candle.
She went through this exact experience when she was a child; it was just too much for her to handle.
She yells toward the front door as she frantically brushes her hair.
Then the door opens and the children learn firsthand that life isn't fair.

One pill, two pills, three pills, four.
Mommy turned to heroin when the pills weren't enough anymore.

Children in foster care, ex-husband still has 4 years left in prison.
Getting her children back should have been her first and only mission,
But it wasn't, and drugs being her only way to cope only compounded the problem.
Once she had the ambition to reach the top; now her habit had her anchored at the bottom.
The children don't remember their dad and their sickly thin mom they can no longer recognize.
One stormy night she ran out of drugs and couldn't stop the tears streaming from her eyes.
Alone in a cold, empty room with no drugs to help her cope,
She took her own life like her sister, simply because they ran out of dope.

One pill, two pills, three pills, four.
Mommy loved her children but she loved her drugs more.

Brian and I were polar opposites; he was loud and wild while I was more quiet and tame.
Despite our differences, both family and friends said we often looked and acted exactly the same.

I never understood it. My skin was unremarkable, nothing more than the average bruise.
Parts of Brian were mutilated. Years later he covered half his upper body with tattoos.

We were friends as long as we could remember. We were both trapped in a world we viewed as a prison.
We even grew to like the same type of girls. In our twenties we even dated two of the same women.

Brian and I met in Queens in the 1980s, both turned 21 in Ohio and toasted with our first beers.
I stayed in Ohio while Brian moved back to New Jersey for a number of years.

I had a normal life filled with normal experiences, Brian was much different.
I always made the attempt to be social, whereas Brian preferred to stay distant.

He introduced me to this little schizophrenic girl. He said she represents what he didn't think was real.
It was a few days after, he called me telling me he had become too numb to feel.

I gave Brian advice. I told him to move back to Jersey because you can't achieve what you don't try.
Brian did. When he came back, he told me when you lose the ability to feel you lose the ability to cry.

I lived a pretty normal life. I eventually found peace, although it took a while.
Brian only saw pain. He said the top of his cheeks hurt when he used to try to smile.

Even Brian didn't know when things changed, but he knew when his health went downhill.
The medication caused weight gain and disease. In the psychiatric world, hope is in the form of a pill.

I started to see Brian a lot more. Unforeseen stress changed his personality drastically.
I even started to see Brian different. It's as if he lived in a different galaxy.

Brian's mood swings became unbearable. He lost all but a few friends.
Brian can't see his own problems, but I assured him I'll be here til the end.

I often wonder what changed in him that made him change.
Was he made this way by a person, or is part of his brain just deranged?

I see scenarios where Brian would be happy. Why can't he?
There really is hope outside of those pills. Why can't he see?

Brian's tattoos started to reflect themes of distrust and betrayal.
Brian said he'd talk about his wanting to die more often, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful.

I knew human beings had good in them. Brian knew they did not.
I want to help people. Brian wants to watch your lying corpse rot.

I told Brian these doctors mean it when they swear to do no harm.
Brian said, "That ignorance is why I stabbed you in the arm."

Neither one of us could agree, because neither one of us could see
That there never was a "we," that I was Brian, and Brian was me.

Little Schizophrenic Girl, heavily medicated so she can't feel the pain.
She will never leave that hospital, never again feel snow or rain.

Tears rolled down my cheek the very first time I looked into her blue eyes.
3 a.m. she's in the hallway hugging an old woman while she cries.

The mental hospital is a holding cell for God's rejects,
A place you will feel nothing but sadness and neglect.

Only 17 years old, a beautiful young girl so sweet and innocent,
Doing life for a crime she didn't commit, there was no sin committed to repent.

Just the way things are, that was 11 years ago and it still hurts me.
A wonderful heart with a tortured mind, something I wish I didn't see.

It still weighs heavy on my heart, it still makes me cry.
I can't forget the sadness I felt the first time I looked into her glassy eyes.

I'm not sure she knew where she was, never be someone's girlfriend or wife,
'Cause she'll never leave that wing of the mental hospital; she'll never experience life.

How can the hospital workers have the strength to do that job?
They're trying to help the cursed, while other lazy people steal and rob.

She barely ate, the medication took away her sense of taste.
I don't think she even knew where she was; counseling sessions were a waste.

A living, breathing, caring heart, a mind with no thoughts like she's brain dead.
The emotions were unbearable, never comprehended a word she said.

Don't worry, you'll feel bliss in heaven, because you were tortured in this world.
I'm still praying for you, Little Schizophrenic Girl.

There's a place in the hospital where they house the severely mentally ill,
A place where people walk around in a daze and every day starts and ends with a pill.

Where people don't want your money; they only want your prayers.
None of them deserved this; this is leaps and bounds past unfair.

There are so many tears, there is so much anxiety.
Dead on the inside, they're living, breathing casualties.

The kindest act I've ever witnessed occurred inside the walls of a mental hospital.
The people often stripped of their sanity as children, where a "normal" life simply isn't possible.

While others want a newer car or bigger house, they just want stability.
Some people call us delusional as if this life isn't our reality.

There was an old women who lost everyone and her sanity was next.
Good and bad are such simple concepts; how did things become this complex?

There was a middle-aged man who tried to drink himself to death on Christmas.
A teenage girl who swallowed an entire bottle of pills, so young yet so sure she wouldn't miss this.

Watching the little schizophrenic girl embrace the crying old woman tells you everything.
You can't take much inside those locked doors, but understanding is something every one of us brings.

The warm smile of a nurse can do more than anyone could understand.
When you have no one, you cling to the memory of that warm hand.

People are ridiculed because the source of their pain is something your eyes can't see,
But so is oxygen, radio waves, antimatter, UV lights, atoms, and gravity.

Emotions as well with their individual intensities.
Hopelessness often precedes drug and alcohol dependencies.

How can you judge how far someone's come when you don't know where they started?
Books seem to provide more questions than answers; these rocky waters are uncharted.

I sincerely hope God blesses every nurse, counselor, and doctor who tried to help.
The ones who really want to help end the suffering and were never in it for the wealth.

The mental hospital, a place where happiness can be very difficult to define.
The mental hospital, a place you leave but a place you never leave behind.

Some feelings are shallow, some feelings are deep.
Some make us smile, some make us weep.

Some we love, some we don't.
Some we'll savor, some we won't.

Some grounding, some uplifting,
Some long-lasting, some constantly shifting.

No matter what feelings I'm feeling today,
I know tomorrow is only a day away.