Posted in Writings

Psychephrenia – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game (8/10)

Part I

A Thought On Psychedelics, Schizophrenia, And Society At Large

A Few Steps Back

Psychedelic drugs do, without a doubt, have a long-term effect on not only one’s body, but also one’s mental state, if one takes them repeatedly over any amount of time. When one consumes a Psychedelic medicine, their endogenous neurotransmitters are replaced by Mokshatransmitters (Psychedelic molecules) that, from the spirit’s perspective, alter perception. From the body’s perspective, however, certain specific neurotransmitters (which depend on the certain specific variety of Moksha Medicine consumed) are not being recepted. To correct for this, the body ramps up production of said neurotransmitters, essentially speeding up the brain – and thus the body itself – in the process.

Many think there are three pillars to existence – mind, body, and soul. The thing is, only two of these three pillars actually exist: the body, which is literally the body, and the soul, the perception, the thing behind the scenes that makes everything work. That leaves the mind; ready for the kicker? What humans refer to as the mind – the ego, the individual “I” – is literally just the perception of the body by the soul. It is not its own entity; it simply does not exist. When one takes Psychedelics, as stated earlier, it speeds up the body and thus the spirit’s perception of the body and the brain, causing them to go through thought processi (among other neurological processi) faster. This leads one to come to conclusions about their surroundings at an unprecedented rate, or at the very least, at a faster rate than one is used to, eventually getting to the point that one automatically jumps to conclusions before one can fully perceive the given situation.

This is schizophrenia, or rather, what we refer to as schizophrenia. It is not a disease, it is simply when the brain operates at too quickly of a pace for the spirit to handle. This leads to one operating at a higher vibrational level of consciousness; the faster the brain works, the faster it perceives its surroundings and reacts – the faster it exists, so to speak. This higher state of existence, or level of consciousness, may be very different compared to that of the organisms co-habitating an environment with the so-called schizophrenic. This difference, once perceived and realized by the surrounding co-habitants, can lead to two outcomes for the schizophrenic: adoration or admonition.

As human beings, we are but a reflection of everything around us; when a schizophrenic is adored, they have the potential to evolve into a higher being of sorts; a witch doctor, a reverend, a shaman, what have you. When a schizophrenic is admonished, they have the potential to evolve, or rather devolve, into… into a terrifying, hateful, painfully isolated (and sometimes violent) monster; in other words, the current society’s view of what a(n unmedicated) schizophrenic is: the worst-case scenario.

The practice of taking Psychedelic drugs, of ingesting the Moksha Medicine, does, undeniably, encourage schizophrenia; they cause the brain to speed up and work faster… work better, some may say. The negative effects which are all too often observed, however, have nothing to do with the Psychedelic compounds themselves; these negative changes in a human’s being are the result of the way the taker is perceived and interacted with. If the taker is encouraged, they can reach limitless levels of higher consciousness, but encouragement is only part of it. The consciousness must be given a chance to get used to its upgraded body; this is done by meditating, by mindfully and deeply breathing, by allowing the spirit time to familiarize itself with its new settings. However, current societal trends do not allow for, or rather, they frown upon one existing for oneself, one dedicating time to oneself for the sake of self-improvement rather than societal improvement. In this way, we have entered into a brave, new version of our world, one prophesied by Aldous Huxley – although our brave new world is significantly less efficient than his, and significantly more… crazy.

Yes, society itself is schizophrenic in that, physically – in body – it has been upgraded and sped up to the point that the humans – the spirit – cannot keep up. Our own creation is better, faster, stronger, and smarter than we are, and that aggravates us, causing us to simultaneously upgrade it and destroy it by not putting our best efforts forward. Because frankly, at this point, we don’t know how to.

We must take a few steps back and breathe to allow the body and the spirit – the Earth and the humans – to come back into balance and equilibrium, in order to make our minds – our society – less crazy.


I just saw a cop walkin’ with a hand on his gun;
I guess grippin’ his dick mid-stride wouldn’t be fun.
Poor him, patrollin’ the streets, uniformed in the sun,
just waitin’ ‘til someone makes his day.
That motherfucker better run.

I never did understand the need for police.
Older folks say otherwise,
there’d be violence in the streets
if mister policeman didn’t prosecute
all the cruckin’ freeps.
Are they speaking for themselves,
or are they speaking for me?

I haven’t followed a law since I tried smoking weed.
One joint and reefer madness won its grip over me,
but that’s not to say I run around killing folks for glee.
I mind my fuckin’ business while toking up a tree.

Some humans have angst and grit their fuckin’ teeth.
To some humans,
violence is the golden road to peace.
Just look at the military and its commander in chief;
billions of taxed dollars,
yet no shortage of foreign beef.

Plus, there’s potholes in the streets
and no legal source for kief.
These mild inconveniences pile with no relief
until the inconvenienced go wild
and load up their fuckin’ guns;
when militia outmans military,
the policeman better run.


Yesterday I danced with the devil to the tune of suicide.
Today I sprint down a mountain with pure joy in my eyes.

How can someone understand from a distance
the insecurities and eccentricities
of a man who swims with ease
in the black lagoon of insanity and spiritual buffoonery,
whose life goal is to smoke more joints than
Tom Foolery?

An interesting and unique existential opportunity
to live in Universe and drop out of university,
blessed with hidden knowledge from
a magic tab of eL-eSs-Dee
and cursed to tell the others so they all look at me crazily.

So I’m wild, I’m drenched in doubt,
I beguile while dripping clout that I don’t have,
fame and fortune is not what I’m about.
For every black cloud that I conjure
I paint a rainbow shortly after;
my brainstorms tend to give way to rapture.

A mystical mountain man
with the mane of a lion and the soul of a tame giant yo,
defiant is what I am.

And the fact that my spectacular action-
packed adventure of a self is given flack is
proof that some are drinking from a rusty
I don’t sip that metallic drip, I just
quip back while I unclip the bat wings and
take flight into that dark night.
Echolocate me if you must, but you won’t see me
as I bob and weave into a higher plane, even
when they complain it doesn’t phase me.
I’m too busy hearing voices and burning bushes
that they despise, whether I’m high or low I
always stride and try not to hate.

As long as I love myself, the love is always I.

Two Eyes Open

To be high, sat upon a mountain’s peak;
a mount amounts to nothing more
than a mound of rock and dirt,
yet it scrapes the sky quite unlike a tower of concrete.

Feeling bliss from an evil plant,
marked by a hand-shaped leaf
that sprouts from the same ground
into which presses your baby’s feet.

An eagle passes overhead, a fish trapped between its beak.
To the dead, it is murder;
to the living, it is a feast.
To live in fear of theft,
your time stolen by Mistress Death,
is to be gazing,
eyes wide shut,
hoping one day to see.

Catch & Release

At half-past two in the morning,
I’m not dozing, just smoking;
sat up at my desk,
wooden pipe, no clothing.

Dosing up with Tee-acHe-Cee
because the bod won’t fall asleep;
the door is closing,
we need to be up in a single hour plus three.

Catching some zees?
More like catch & release,
more like that’s why they call it fishing and not sleep.

But every mountain is steep
and climbing up is the bends;
just keep it upright,
and take the briars to the shins.

So I’m tired and pissed off
like tick tock goes the clock
above the desk on the wall,
I look up with a frown.

To fall down in that hole,
the open mouth of a jar being filled in my car,
the right rear door ajar to blow the smoke in the air,
without a care but to spark,
a journey into despair,
a gurney on Noah’s ark.

Get High

Survived a long day of life,
energy seems low but I’m vibin’.
I arrive home to a room that screams,
“I need some Psilocybin”.
Petty forced smile and fakest glee I’ve ever seen,
got one cookin’ dinner and one starin’ at the screen.

He won’t smoke any weed,
just stares at the TV,
watching men scream over politics
and what was tweeted this eve’.

Not trying to throw a fit
or dine down here in the slime,
I tell them that I gotta go,
there’s a mountain out there to climb.
Taking a break from the holy leaf,
but not leaving myself too dry,
I get my fuckin’ blood pumping and make myself high.

High off the ground,
touching clouds as the sun sets into the evening,
flying higher than an eagle,
through the trees it be weaving,
believing that my getting high is the reason
I’m smiling, not grieving.

As the sun sets I slide down the mount’
with a different way of perceiving.

Man In The Mirror

Who is that? That kid,
looking at me from the mirror? I’ve never seen him before.
Mother says it’s me, but I don’t believe Her.
I think I should mow the lawn.


Just my luck,
this fuckin guy staring at me in my bathroom.
My eyes are red, I’ve cried,
I’m fed up with being alive.
Lines of red, trembling hands as I swallow down the meds.
I want to sleep,
shatter the mirror… I guess I’ll throw up instead.


I stare down the mirror’s expression,
eyes white as a spectre,
pupils the size of platters
as smoke rises through the rafters.
A good man,
misunderstood and banished to swim through a flood,
sprint from the mud to dry land
as all the other crabs burrow in the sand.

I Forgot I Wrote This Too

A melancholy stare is affixed on his face.

A felon in a maze, guilty only of despair.
He wanders for days,
lighter than a prayer
without a care in the world, he could be blindfolded.

The fold in the blinds is where the light peeks through,
the sun’s glow is warm and provides a feeling
unlike the artificial light put in the ceiling.
Who do you think installed it?
And why am I appalled at my lines
just as soon as I’ve scrawled them?

I’ve been trying to poem write for a fortnight
and I have nothing.
Just a saved line or two,
the result of pushing buttons
when I’m way too high to be doing anything but hiking.
I have the self-control of shroomed-out fuckin’ viking.

And I’m actually not an addict,
this is all to my liking.
I just have a big appetite that needs constant satisfying,
wanna fight?

I don’t.
Let’s just burn down a spliff,
take a couple bong rips.
You’re tripping right now,
but you’ll be trippin’ in a minute
and I’ll smoke you under the table
before the hour is finished!

The table, of course,
being the one I don’t use to work,
covered in papers & data that make my eyes hurt
in a purely mental way,
you cashed a check today?
I sat on my fuckin’ ass and wished that I got paid.

Then again,
today is actually my day off.
It took me nine nights but I finally checked the box,
forty-two hundred words and some busy work later
and I’m laying on the poem,
couching like a self-hater.


Why do we allow ourselves to be consumed by doubt?
I really don’t know man, why do we stay bugging out?

How are you gonna lay me upon this bed all day
and make me focus my eyes on what the others say,
always thinking on the tomorrow
that’s years out from today.
Santa ain’t the reindeer, he flies the freakin’ sleigh!

Easy for you to say, always talking shit.
Always keep the brain racing,
causing me to throw a fit.
Always claiming to act for others,
you want your own benefit
and I don’t even know who’s lying here,
but on you? The shoe? It fits.

On me? You’re really gonna blame this life on me.
the captain is the angel and the problem’s the machine.
more translucent than solution of saline,
you tell me, “Don’t be blue,”
and take the yellow out the green!

It’s yes or no, monkey, there is no in-between.
You always rock the boat and careen the shits on me.
Your ship has sailed,
I’m pristine and this life is looking pale.
I got other bodies in alternate timelines just waiting,
fucking begging
for me to grace them with sublime and fine dining,
a life of gold, shining, a rhinestone-sized diamond.
So say your last words before I pop you like a hymen.

Been there, done that, you’ve tried to kill myself.
Remember that pilly dinner,
snatched the bottle off the shelf?
But you cried, changed your mind,
vomited and stayed crying while I picked up all the pieces,
so you’d best stop denying.

I fucking scoff–

I cut you off! I think you’re stuck with me.
Mister Immortal Spirit, just a ball of energy,
or a string,
the pull start to get my ass up out the brink,
I mean bed;
no matter what you’ve tried, I still ain’t wound up dead!

And tried I have,
how many tabs of Acid does it take!?
How many Magic Mushroom trips,
how many bowls of Shake?
How much time you gotta spend tripping on a higher plane
just to see that I’m divine,
and you and I,
we’re the same?

Then why can’t I fly?
Why you make life so hard?
Why we always stayin’ broke,
why we empty in the heart?

Oh it’s we now?

It’s been we,
motherfucker you’re a sheep
if you think you’re gonna spin this thread
right back around on me!
I’m a long-haired hippie freak with a psychephrenic mind–
Yes, a life of my design.
Time’s a story, play your character.
Be kind to the AI and carve your mind into the baluster.

I thought the mind didn’t exist?

You thought right, it’s just the tendency
to bend these words together,
make ‘em rhyme and give ‘em density.

So what the fuck’s the point,
why you put me through all this?

We go through all this
as much as a wall goes through ya fist
when you’re fuckin’ angry and your rage
has got me fuckin’ pissed.

Is there something that I missed?

And yet you still persist;
you asked me a question and I cuffed you at the wrist
and you just keep coming back,
fucking imagine that.
The hairless ape’s map of life is riddled with fuckin’ gaps!

I think the point of life’s to live until the light goes out…
…so if you knew that all along, what’ve we been on about?

Yes, we, soul and body,
the ghost and the machine.
Inseparable together,
yet insufferable as a team.
We stand alone in a snow-swept forest,
just leaning on this tree.

Now that we have this poem, I wonder what it means…

Writer’s Block

I claim that I have writer’s block, as if I was a writer.
I just flick a lighter, scribble symbols onto lines of paper.
A quick Google search to include good words like caper,
as I skip around my keyboard with my fingers,
like a gamer.

first I said I’m writing, now I’m straight to typing?
What about your creative process,
paper then to data?
How your writings gonna matter
if you skip rungs on the ladder?
They’re not,
lightning doesn’t strike and every Hunter is a bladder.

A hazy mind and I’ve gone crazy, I can’t be an author.
Split my skull and I survived,
“why I believe in flying saucers.”
Shaman’s blood,
half my soul’s a man’s so the other half is feminine;
not a writer but a block of cheese I bite,
so lemme quote Eminem.

I feel like it’s so hard for me to come up with shit to say.
The day I go hard like a mouthful of soap bar is the day I finally wash my car, ay!
I’m at a loss for words, kuz y’all already said it all;
I better toss my words,
like a leaf to the ground they fall flat,
like I’m on insanity’s brink at an ice rink and
I think I’m running out of clichés;
humans, aliens,
I’m getting writer’s block.

Somebody tells me to shave again,
I’ll go and buy a clock
and break it on their fucking face,
but don’t call me a cock.
I’m more like a rooster,
a cock-a-doodle-dooster doing doodles
like a Yankee I’m a hanky-panky Brewster,
Don’t give me a feather or I’ll fake it out like pleather,
put it on a plaque for my cronies,
scream JACK,
and serve ’em macaroni.

Shit, I get it,
this stopped being poetry
when my schizodelic mind
rhymed words like nursery.
No rehearsal,
this was off the top of the dome,
chrome’s reversal.
My hippie hair’s so long it catches fire
from the toaster when I’m toasting bread,
never fed like I’m gonna croak and I’m broke,
so I might as well spend all my time smoking dope.

But that would be a waste,
I need to work with haste,
one hundred hours a day all dedicated to create,
to write my words,
all symbols, just like I always say,
so I can stay somewhere else other than locked away
in Mother’s attic,
like, fuck, what more can I say?

I’m just an addict with writer’s block
who’s tryna save the day.

Hello Commons, this has been the first part of Psychephrenia: A Compendium Of Thoughts & Poems Written By A Psychedelic Shaman, a smaller book hidden in the back of A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game, a satirical poetry anthology about an author journeying to a horrifying place: his own mind. Lyme-Brained is the third book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

Lyme-Brained is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Lyme-Brained and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here, OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~


I'm that guy who makes fiction books so he doesn't go insane.

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