Schizophrenic part of town

Schizophrenic part of town

Flashing lights turned bizarre by disillusions and frustrations of the mind. Sights to behold when the high dose is skipped for the day. Locked away and now free my reality creates itself as I wander about from street to street - up and then down. Zombies they stare at one another, blind like rats trying to find their way in the maze they explore one then another. Never a direct look do I get from the likes of them. Art carved in brick becomes their god and my amusement.

I see zombie like figures float from whore to whore seeking the flesh of the moment. Paying with frog skins for pleasure denied elsewhere. A fetish for the night is all they get.

Down in the dark where the trash has laid a passage I see punctured veins where the dragon's tail whips and the maggots mark the graves to be. The silver tongue awaits a new vein to cure with his snake oil and cure alls. 

I am king in the schizophrenic part of town; if only for a night.

I hear babies cry from the many holes in the sky. Hungry and wanting more, their progenitors are off seeking cures for their veins and smoke for their worries.

What an adventure in the schizophrenic part of town.

Fallen from grace I see yet another zombie diving to the earth. Plunging down to see me? Caused a wrinkle on ground and soon to be swept up by the street cleaners feet. Simply another advertisement for false relief from the life that has consumed too much of them...

Up then down, up then down. Wandering from street to street I see it all. Tomorrow the high dose comes again and my artificial world will come crumbling down.

The time is short. Time is always short in the schizophrenic part of town.

Life has little meaning to the many walking corpses that I see. Minds are peeling apart for little pleasures that mean nothing to anyone outside this part of town. I can smell the dead on them as they walk by; ignoring my every move. I watch as they drop piece by piece, some skin here, a organ there. Sounds like thunder as they land and shatter.

The sirens of wolves call my name in the night. The needles are chasing me down to end my time in the schizophrenic part of town. 

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I work allot with mental health patients and this is where this short story/poem stems from. I often see the reckless lives that people lead these days and when comparing the lack of concern for their own lives to the views of my residents I am quite surprised that my residents hold more value for their lives then the everyday people I see on street. Sometimes it is obvious that they are more normal in some senses then most of us. Then again, normalcy is a matter or personal opinion not fact.

I tired to place myself in their shoes and see through their eyes. I'm not quite sure how well I achieved this goal but from the stories I've heard I don't think I am all that far off.