Inscrutable Instruments

Along the same vein as the previous post – A Dedication to Emilie Autumn’s ‘The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls’ – is this poem, Inscrutable Instruments. I wrote this a few years ago but have re-drafted, revised and edited it again over the Winter holiday. 

This time delicate Victorian lace
Replaces those daunting steel bars
How nice
Where are the mice?

Not in here! Not at the orthodontists!
Where my teeth pushed and pulled in every direction
The enamel left is only a fraction
From what was there before

Starring through the window
My gaze penetrating to the outside
In a vain attempt to refocus attention
From the damage I struggle to abide

Away from these inscrutable instruments
That look suitable only for violation
And yet this is my remission
To be scraped and reshaped

Ready for the next time
When the devices return
With yet higher prices
And no amount of remission will suffice

Jenna Grabey © 2013. All Rights Reserved.

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A Dedication to Emilie Autumn’s ‘The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls’

After reading Emilie Autumn’s semi-autobiography The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls which by the way I highly recommend although it is not easy to get hold of a copy. I thought I would post this poem which I wrote back in 2009 because it strongly relates to a poignant point Emilie makes. For those of you who have a copy of the book then the page that I am particularly referring to is 220. I hope you enjoy the poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Psychology: If it’s so popular they why the stigma?
Mental Illness affects one in four people: Fact
.
You demonised me into being victim
Like I chose that- are you sick?
Just because the fromage I wouldn’t lick
And wanted to resemble a stick

Or to be violently sick
Left alone to be depressed
Though I had nothing to confess
Suicidal thoughts I caressed

All these years attempting to express how I feel
Shut down and shut up every time, by you
I would have told you till I was blue
In face if I thought you’d have listened

People, unlike you did listen
And act, support, didn’t “shut up”
I talked freely, drinking coffee,
With bars, on the window
I owe them my life.
The ability to laugh and not care
What anyone else may think
To be drunk and to be aware,
Emotion doesn’t mean, you need to see a shrink
It means you are alive, and living,
Interacting with everything around you

A slave, subjected to emotion
A victim of expression
Terrified of my reflection
Surrounded by oppression

I was sick.

All negative blood tests
That is always best.

Can’t see anything wrong
Just “come back if symptoms persist”.
Was ten years too long?
Were you waiting for rig-amortise?

In body, physically a child
In mind, psychologically a child
Listen to Blake as he whispers, Innocence
Epitomising youth in his assonance

Dry cries for help
Invaded 1999 to 2009
All without tears
Just pure anger and fears

I owe you my existence
My life belongs to me
Sick of submission
And a victim of emotion

Jenna Grabey © 2009

The image above is taken from the book. I do not own any rights over it only what is written above.