The art or science of psychology is a closed book to me.
I try to stay away from excess mental confusion. It can lead to personal disaster. This does not mean mental confusion stays away from me.
I suspect this is, in part, because my favourite poet is John Clare. He went insane and died in the Northampton Madhouse.
Victims are always at risk of being harmed with no visible scars.
We may be a little more understanding today. Well maybe…
I was asked to share a site focussed on mental health so this is it:
So joyous was the heart sometime.
Maybe it was going mad,
Where life immerses all in slime,
Then the happy will turn sad
And hearts at ease become all tense
And all things seem so inane,
So, take care with things that make sense;
They could prove that you’re insane.
And through all of this delusion,
Glinting from deceitful dreams.
Nothing may come to conclusion,
Ah, nothing’s as it seems.
The senses never do tell true,
Lies are fed unto the brain.
Then hear the call of that cuckoo
In the Winter on the plain.
So sad now is the heart all day.
So happy are the mad!
For Death it has a shining ray
And no corpses can be sad.
Rotting carcass not yet dead,
Shadow of a former thing.
Let foul lies not go unsaid
Hateful life – this is your sting!
Dwindling to demented age,
Rage all spent upon self-hate.
Each old fool was once a sage;
Death like old Time is running late!
Hanging on to some cheap life.
Clinging to the sin of Hope.
Aching from the wounds of strife,
There’s no point now when you cope.
Ranting at an empty space,
Wrath against imagined wrong.
Life deprives the soul of Grace,
Let’s all join a sing-a-long.
In the eyes a monster lies
Deep in there, what can be hid?
Hark, the howling creature cries;
It’s the monster of the Id!
Here and there and roundabout,
Through the spirals of the brain,
Dwells a constancy called “Doubt”;
Everywhere it leaves a stain.
Judgements are so easy done
Those adjudged then cast aside.
Who has lost and who has won?
Victory goes to idle Pride!
Into the mire some are tossed,
Just because of who they are.
And maybe they are all now lost;
Lest they have a lucky star.
Shadows passed along the wall
Wraiths that once were living too.
Souls of those been made to fall,
In great wrongs there’s nothing new.
There and here about around,
Through the torments of the stained.
Muted, they now make no sound,
Drift the souls of those so pained.
In recesses of the mind,
In the deep sleep of the night,
Dreams may come that are unkind,
Give the soul a dreadful fright.
Visions of a long gone wrong,
Phantoms of those gone and dead.
Then the soul is borne along,
Dreadful things in dreams are said.
Those who died that you could live
Speak all kindly now to thee.
Who can cope when they forgive;
Forgiveness never leaves you free.
There’s a debt can’t be repaid
Where the creditor is dead.
When the final act is played,
Your soul is safe – for it has fled.
In recesses of the soul,
In that sleep that’s known as Death,
Then perhaps things may be whole,
There beyond the final breath.
©Trevor Morgan, 1995, revised 16 January 2018