Sitting on my bed, thinking of life ahead

my heart bursts for it no longer hurts

my wounds are closing for you are so adoring

my soul is awake for it has found its mate



I have screamed for my mum for an eternity it seems

She left me to die for I reflected her lie

I longed for relief from the rejection I felt

deep in my core like a poisonous sore

I am released from her spell but the scar remains

hopefully to reach to others in pain


Two beautiful new poems by Annabel Jessel ( Annabel attends our group 'Stand By Me')

Mary Maddock

Bullshit--Anti-Psychiatry and Anti-Medication song is from my album "Songs from the Locked Ward," written and recorded in the summer of 2009. I wrote it as a testament to the horrors people suffer at the hands of psychiatry---the lack of empathy, ...   New Beginningsby Tim Harris build strength to work magicchange the pictureto brilliant from tragiconly limits are those you stateit's your timefeel it's fate a warrior of peacebrilliant light to releasedraw from its wealththe wingspan the stealth that hard road was a giftevery step had its purposetomorrow's load a one hand lift it was what it wasfree from the mazethis is now that was thenclose eyes to gazeevery soul a friend

 A Cry in the dark Washing willows on an empty bay mothers frayed internal dexterity candle blackout eternal fragmentary Pardon listeners never hear good of themselves come again a thing of beauty is a joy forever Disturbances; higher mental functions such that no amount of whistling in the dark will ever stop us causing ructions Lydia Walsh - Yildirim




Rags and bags.

You look away with your third eye.

Bags and rags.

You look at the blue sky.

Third eye raised,

looking away from the ass in the glass,

away from the "depraved crazed",

away from your behind in the mirror farting gas.

You are unaware that they are conscious.

"No self awareness in their third eye,"

is the consensus,

of people marching by,

"the lesser than us."

You've reduced them to...

- a "mentally ill" biological substrate,

- the lesser than you,

- the unworthy of inalienable rights fate.

- You deny that their hunger pained feelings of starvation is true.

To you, the one in the mirror's life doesn't rate!

By Harry Bentivegna Lichtenstein

August 1, 2009










ECT is no more therapeutic than,

bashing skulls more,

or less forcefully (gentler?),

irrespective of gender,

with a sledge hammer,

Sledge Hammer Therapy?, SHT,

from here on pronounced,  “shhh… t”,

would be therapy.


Let’s try to imagine the victim’s experience:

Nausea, discombobulated,

L O S T     M E  M   O    R     I      E      S,

Painful static electricity like feelings causes enveloping darkness.


The victims are called, “patients”.

Serious injury and torture are called, “therapy”.

Mental dementia and brain damage are called, “side effects”.

Torturers are called, “doctors”.

The electrical current goes on as bodies do shivering dances to it.

And the current goes on.


Is torture ethical?

Is it a civil rights violation?

Can scientific research be used to –

     justify and reclassify torture as being therapy?

Should ECT and SHT be legal?

Are new laws necessary?

The answers depend on the time, place,

and  legal system we are living under.


 ECT is like the emperor who wore no clothes!

Swindlers called themselves, “scientists”.

They dressed it in the big lie of it’s therapeutic value.

“Only the dim witted can’t see it’s clothing,” said the swindlers.

But, ECT is as stark naked as the emperor was!


Whatever it takes,

enforcing or changing laws;

stop the uncivilized use of forced ECT and SHT,

whether it is described as, “harsh” or “gentler”.

Flush the toilet full of ECT and SHT.


April 4, 2009

Completely revised and added to the draft of a poem that I wrote May 28, 2001

2nd revision (1 line), July 4, 2009

By Harry Bentivegna Lichtenstein

 Voices  Singer Alex/Piano and composer Mary

 Song for the Revolution........'SLAVES'  Singer Alex/Piano and composer Mary

Behind Enemy LinesFor Brave JohnThey have stripped you of your dignityThey have tried to crush your spiritThey have tried to erase you, invade youAnd claim you as their own experimentThey have tried to stunt your developmentWith mind-numbing, brain dis-abling drugsIn the guise of break-through treatmentThey deny you your basic right to freedomYou are their lucrative label, their last bastionThey clip your wings and dreams with bad medicineThat changes your personality and denies you your painYour humanity, your gifts, your sensitivityThey have treated you like a beast, beneath themYou are so brave to resist, persist and insistThat you do not have a chemical imbalanceYou have fought them all the way with your true storyBattle lines are drawn and their weapon is chemicalYou take the blows and punch them back their labelBefore the syringe is filled and the needle aimedIt takes three of them to hold you down, it’s assaultNon-compliant, treatment-resistant, insistentIn the face of over-whelming cruel powerThey crucify you every time you Remind them of their pseudo-science                      




                      Song ( Mary Maddock)



We are notWe are notWe are not your slaves anymoreFind another jobFind another jobFind another job to earn your bobWe will find our libertyWe will not live in miseryWe are not We are notWe are not your slaves anymoreNo more brain damageNo more brain damageNo more brain damage anymoreNo more electroshockNo more electroshock

No more electroshock anymore 



           The Butterfly of Life

               Regina O' Flynn                                              



No one laughs at me

But yet I am a likeable laugh

Everyone gets something

And I got mine

You sail on the crust and cuff of a wave


Now I’m sad

Cos I think my sub conscience

Works in a way that it

Takes a while to understand and feel

Registers the news in my brain

Death affects me so much

And the loss of a life

I’m not the same

I’m two poles in the one body

It’s passed midnight

And the world is asleep

No one to talk to

Only the thoughts in my head

Over and over and over again

I split myself in half and please

Wish I had a midnight friend----Oh God!



As I put this pen to paper

It saddens even more

The racing thoughts in my head

Why me, why me, why me?


Crying will not ease

The road that is ahead

It’s either up or down, which ever

Happens – that is it.



The pain of my heart

Almost stops my breathing.


Yet I would never change

What I am.

The power of one

The moments of life

All the parts of living

Experienced to extremes.


But the sadness is within

Fragile girl – daddiless – without blame

Thank you Jesus

One day I will return to you

Love always

The butterfly of life


Each minute seems like an hour

Waiting for the midnight time to pass

No one to talk to

Only the ticking of the clock

The eyes are closing

But yet can’t sleep

Insomnia, insomnia.


Watching T.V.

How pleasant

Tick, tick, tick…….


Getting sadder from the

Cycle of no sleep and

Wishing time to pass.


Is medication the answer?

The side effects, pain

Is it normal to feel?

To feel sad, to feel afraid

Panic – towards the future

Cannot face the public

Oh – to take a step out of life

And enjoy the dance

And rest in the spirit.


Mouth gets drier

From pills we took – stronger side effects/painful

But yet the angel of sleep

Will not visit.



How pleasant to spend the night

Only with the stars watching

Heavier and heavier become the lids

But no shut eye

Mouth becomes like sandpaper.


Sadder and sadder is the feeling inside

Want to talk to someone

But only Man on the Moon will listen

Jack Frost is gone on a sabbatical

And even Mr. Sunshine will not be here till day.


Reflection/ reflection/reflection

The butterfly of life.


Whipping Good Memories and Dead Horses  by  Dean Blehert  Despair, when it is, is bottomless, omnivorous,swallowing whatever you throw at it. As your goalsvanish into its maw, you try to kill despair,hurling at it your best memories, your triumphs,your deepest truths, and these too are instantlycoated with sticky black drool.   Memories will only stand for so much, and thenthey mutiny: "Don't you remember...?" "NO! Inever loved you, it was never good with you!"An old truth is a slippery anchor in a maelstrom,one more weight to drag us under."But it was good! It was wonderful,remember? Please remember!" So one tells oneself(or so we tell each other) like a teamsterin a blizzard who doesn't realize the horsehe's whipping has frozen to death.   Despair owns the walls of the room, each pieceof furniture, your body, the bed, the window,whatever you can see through the window,the texture of whatever you touch --and any wisp of memory you drag into the roomwhere you are stuck, staring at or away from despair.   Despair is beaten by not believing what one seemsto know (that this night or week or month or yearis forever), by knowing that it eats anythingyou bring near it, by not feeding it.   See that delicate ship hoistingall its bright-colored sails into the dark furyof a storm? See it plow under, all sails flying?   No, best to batten down, lie low untilone can move, can see or imagine a way to move,lifting one foot, then the otherand moving in a direction one insists on calling(against all of the nightmare's frantic denials)forward; one finds something to do that one can do --a little thing, tie a shoe, take a walk,clean a room, get out of bed, scratchan itch, listen to the Blues...   not some radical puffed-up parody of total solutionurged by despair itself, charged withmelodramatic electricity. Find one thingthat is (if we pretend there can ever again beone thing better than another) better to do thannothing at all, and do it,   and gradually -- as chaos resolves into up and down,what is and what is not -- one can do more,begins to feel that the circlesin which one has been moving have, themselves,been moving, like a child's traveling ovals --   one has been getting somewhere, one begins to knowsome things one never knew before,and there are calmer spaces, breaks in blackness,hints of a sky that is not sea, a long arc of horizon,a direction, a future and, therefore, a past,the tingle (uncoaxed) of a few good memories,still dazed, but alive after all,a smell of salty tangled lifethat could be hope.                          Hindsight Horizon                                   by                       Lydia Walsh-Yildirim 


They called her mellow

Yellow drapers caught the twilight sun

Moonlit ravens making one

Whole fractions


Sums it up


The drapers sparkle in delight

Willows lifted, reveal the shadow of a life

Once hiding in corners; bated breath

Now one

May call it a living...

Walking in wardrobes

These globetrotters

Under care of rotters

Knotted, Mellow’s got the trots now

He’s made it through

The bouts of hollow vacancies

+ bulkmade stew

Rubbernecking round the  pew


Voices – let them through

Unshaken silence on fields of barley,

Oats and rye

Demons straiting  we’re not standing


The penny drops mind

Freedom fighters united

Ain’t abiding lies nor log rolls


Yellow drapers snatch

The twilight Son

   C'est La Unvie  by James M. Nordlund   A million monarchs lie dead, though, No less sociological programming of Upper-middle to rich classes with Decadence, affluence, inclusion, is. No less societal determination of Middle to lower, being excluded by Division and conquering, privation. Yet, they, on wing no more, still fly In our spirit's eye, heal humanities' Heart. While their silent cry echoes The 33,000 species extinct each year, A rate not seen since the last ice age Ensued; does it move you? Does your curiosity ask why? Will you, on this 33rd Earth Day, allow A tear for all life's fallen? Consider The losses economic apartheid incurs, Mirrored by the divide human-centricity Has levied? Our underlying duplicitous Disregard for life, greed and oil fueled, Won't abate for our existence, will you?   ( For the beautiful butterflies, et tu, mon amis, written one and a half years before the 33rd. )


 Broken Hearts


Broken hearts have endless pains

Recorded in the head

The Psychiatric warriors

Plunder the living dead.


The blind are lost, but lead the blind

With salaries immense

They endlessly pontificate

And have no common sense.


Ignoring what the mind can do

With the pain of a broken heart

Lost amid the psyche

They know not where to start.


Baggage labels made by Freud

Are randomly selected

Electric shocks administered

And powerful drugs injected.


Encased in their sarcophagae

The "Citizens Ashamed"

Instead of being cared for

Are very often blamed!


Their mutilated minds have made them

Loners- set apart

No one quite remembers -

They came with a broken heart.


Chris Youngman


                              Twice Daily

   ( Poem by Lydia, which she read at the MindFreedom Ireland candle light vigil in honor of Emsin Green R.I.P.)


Thrice daily

spherical precipitation


put me down

engrained within

those Above

the sound of silence

headlong rush

the mound of hell



projection, introjection


from being



disaffected, these; infected

put down

the mound


the generally unwell


but mounds leap

and Rise


"Freaks" suprise

hysterical "mechanisms"

meek schisms prevail







 A poem from Lydia for MindFreedom Ireland

                                                       The dark side


Intangible transistion


hour pissing

on your parade

a bleeding charade




Hang up

your cap

and gown ( ! )

mainstream's unseen



your stocks and bonds

my lock-ins; soul ponders

distraught wandering


percieved by the senses

when I don't get nothing


fearing your transferences

shunned, I lunged OFF all stunned but me!   Humility's fragility surprisingly inaccurate surmising dangerously reactive con the conjecture Mindfreedom heed em' ellipses un bray cable


More poetry from Lydia--------Poetry in motion!                                                       


Revolver Doors


Some sage sed

As one door closes behind you


opens before you

(and closes again)

locks thee in den

Free red?

see ruby

Free doom

pure gloom


some sage!

underpinned grandiosity

bore you?

external snooze

inferno; lose


to your inn

may win the lock in


obviously sent to the looney bin


opens before you

then locks behind you

deja vu

'cos i made a tactical boo-boo

peripheral vision

on a spiralling roller-coaster

stare case

roasts you

could find holier hosts too

Quest- on candid camera

2 fingers; the whinges

rustling keys, bustling dreams


on your knees



stay with it

ruby red roasts

The Fence

against failure

veers nearer

Eureka experience


may be quiet

a furore

knock on heavens door


on carraig moor