THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

Deep breath now. Here comes that sickening stench of bleach. Push open those double-doors and watch all eyes turn to you. You're too familiar with this room. Look around and see who's here: A crying baby with a flustered mother, A preteen boy covered in mud and clutching a swollen ankle. Nothing new, nothing special. Take a few steps towards the counter. Take a few steps towards the first onslaught of questions. You turn to your mother; she's already checking you in. She is tired. Her voice is firm and composed but her eyes are empty. She has seen this place as often as you. The receptionist, in all her naive cheeriness, asks the first awful question of the night: "What brings you here this evening?" You freeze. The room is too quiet. They're going to know, to hear, to judge. Your mother leans in and winces on each word, "Mental health crisis." They taste like poison on her tongue, and the receptionist recoils to her keyboard. You both sit down and wait. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time doesn't pass at the same rate here. Seconds pass sluggishly, minutes crawl by. Your name is called by a nurse and you are ushered into a small room. Her searching eyes are looking for an easy case, but she gets out her notes as your mother starts to reel off your life story: "Name Date of birth 14 years old Diagnosed with depression and anxiety History of self-harm, overdose, and suicidal ideation. Found her crying earlier and talking about ending it all." Notes are made, sympathetic looks are given. "We'll call the mental health team," she says. The mental health team. That legendary entity that is summoned in vain To talk sense into troubled teens Who bring nothing but pens, papers, and questions. When you're mentally ill, everyone wants to know every detail of your life. You wait in a side room this time, and you don't even bother to watch the clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You've spent an age in this hospital before. They turn up at midnight, clutching notepads. This is the slowest they've ever been. And then it comes; The Question that all counsellors, therapists and psychiatrists insist on asking so causally: "How are you?" "Bloody marvellous, you moron," you think. "Tired," you say You're not lying. You've been waiting up for hours and your vision is slightly blurred But that's not what you mean. You're tired of this. Of this half-life, this empty existence. You're tired of this diagnosis hanging over your head like a guillotine. You're tired of hospital beds and screaming babies and well-meaning nurses. But mostly you're tired of their questions. Their stupid. Fucking. Questions. As though one day, asking them over and over will get them anywhere. You're already suicidal, but it's enough to send you over the edge. At least no one makes you rate your mood from 1-10 when you're dead. And then it comes - The million-dollar question: "If you were to go home, do you think you might harm yourself?" This one's clever. They make it sound like they care but really they're just trying to cover their arses incase you were to have a tragic accident with a handful of pills and a knife. So you answer "yes" That's where the real fun begins. Will they admit you? Or decide there aren't enough beds? Either way, you're living for another day; You're too exhausted to inflict any harm on yourself now. But there's the final question, "What now?" Fact is, for all their experience, medial degrees, and interrogation, They don't know. And neither do you. Truthfully, one one knows. Everyone has been bullshitting to you since you got here. You want to go home now and hope you can sleep off the episode like a migraine, But first you have to wait for the doctor's approval. All you ever do is wait. Wait for appointments, wait for professionals, wait for a fucking miracle. What you're really waiting for is an answer. You don't know where that answer is going to come from, But it sure as hell doesn't lie at the end of one of their awful questions. Deep breath. Just keep waiting. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Two old friends together at last Meet in a quiet coffee shop; Their smiles reminiscent of the past

They had both grown up so fast No longer the children they used to be; Two old friends together at last

Memories stretched out like shadows cast When the sun is low in the sky; Their smiles reminiscent of the past

A flurry of questions are asked Stories are shared in delighted excitement; Two old friends together at last

Their happiness is broad and vast Enjoying each other’s company again; Their smiles reminiscent of the past.

A bond distance cannot surpass Time will never wear it to weak submission: Two old friends together at last Their smiles reminiscent of the past.

The fog sets in And I look up To see the things I cannot touch To strain for words I cannot hear To grasp for things I cannot clutch Sometimes the fog Recedes away Becomes a haze On a sunny day It’s always there Just waiting for Its chance to fall And block my way I breathe it in And cough it out It’s choking me From inside out It clogs my lungs And dulls my mind And whispers things I could live without Sometimes the fog Becomes too much Weighs down my bones And seals my lips I cannot scream Or ask for help My mind crumbles And my strength slips I’ve tried to run But it traps me I cannot leave Or escape my mind And if I try I live in fear Because the fog Is close behind

Made up, fucked up, twisted lies From the lips of the ones that we despise You don’t want peace, you want silence Argument is wrong, resistance is violence Shut up, sit down, hold your tongue Because no one listens when you’re young We’re hostile, naïve, brash and dumb And we won’t obey anyone We raise our fists rather than guns But still you think we’re the dangerous ones We’re messed up and beyond repair No destination; we’re going nowhere

They talk about the unsustainability of fuel But not of happiness And personally I believe the world is quite a depressing place My world is quite a little place But there are things I cannot face Where tigers prowl and roar and remind me of the struggle behind My eyes Did you know? The reason why I cannot sleep at night Is not because of normal stress It’s not because I am depressed Instead I lie awake at night Wondering if the razor blades my friend will hold They’ll clutch too tight Or if strings of sentences from textbooks Will weave ropes around my friends’ necks Or if they’re making cocktails of pills Just to sleep Or if the food they left off their plate Made them too weak Or if they tried to fly But couldn’t get further than the train tracks And you might think that This is all just paranoia so I’ll try and spell it out for you My heart doesn’t rest until I see them And know that their heart still beats, too You see, this puts my other issues into perspective I do not care if I have an exam When my greatest test comes from leading a friend away from death When you live like that you’re barely alive It’s a struggle to survive So here’s the issue of sustainability: We share our inner light in hopes that we can all see But sometimes that light goes out Because our hope is running out So the dark comes in and we fight it We find our light and reignite it But sometimes the tinder fails And hopelessness prevails So I take the matches in my hands and set fire to my soul Because the burning hurts less than seeing them lose control See I’m not here to save the whole world Just mine And I lie awake at night knowing that my friends aren’t alright And I can’t sustain this light

The city of youth and blinding lights, Streets that go on forever and ever. Where the buildings stretch up to endless heights, And all walks of life walk together.

Streets lined with expensive shops, An old man sits in a doorway. Through puddles a small girl skips and hops; Like a tiny dancer in a ballet.

Stationary cars fill narrow roads, Their angry horns voicing their protest. A green light flashes and movement explodes, Into journeys from which they had digressed.

Lush green lawns and glowing buildings Adorn the crown of the West. Artists meet with cultural cravings - And Buckingham Palace is the treasure chest

Tube after tube rushes into the station, Shuttling civilians to and fro. An underground network that transports a nation; Through long, dark tunnels they must go.

This city is not for the meek or slow; It pulsates with fresh, new life. “London calling”, The Clash sang, years ago, But only to those who can handle the strife.

Slashing and sluicing and coming down hard, Drowning the Summer sun’s peaceful facade. Nothing is spared, neither high nor low, It’s a one-way mission: to earth it must go. A cautious glance at the warning sky, A single drop landing in your eye, As you gaze up, waiting. Puddles that spill through cracks in the curb, From the depths of the jungle to a sleepy suburb. It’s soaked up by dry, thirsty African sand, And stands still atop boggy English land. A drop to a trickle to a spring to a stream, To a river that rushes into the ocean’s vast dream. It can bring life to its glory, flourishing and pure, Or bring destruction and chaos and leave the earth raw When it’s wild. Untamed and angry, unleashed from the sky, It’s cloudy cell broken, and then the storm’s eye Grows wider and wider with each passing second, A beast, a monster, a force not to be reckoned With its violent lashings of watery doom In the midsts of the giant, dark, watery gloom- And then it stops. Just like that, it is gone, and passes away, Lying in wait for another unsuspecting day. Some countries get snow or sun and a breeze, But everywhere has rain to different degrees. It may come as a gentle shower on idyllic fields, Or as a monstrous monsoon abusing the power it wields. For as sure as the seasons change and babies will cry, And as sure as there is a sun in the sky, The rain will come.