Chapter Three
Mental Illness
An unseen ailment affecting a person’s mind, and everything they think about.





I have decided that peace and justice has a mental health angle.
My enemy (which I love), suffer from “Injustice euphoria.” This condition allows
people to sleep while being responsible for others misery. If sleep continues for a
life time, the result is a dog house in heaven or no heaven at all. The cure is to
work for a just world as much as you worked for an unjust world.   


I myself am
“Injustice Myopic” I am so aware of the injustices in the world that I
may go crazy with depression and angry unless I take the cure, which is to work to
make the world more just and seek personal peace.         



“Victims of Injustice” have no control, and very little recourse to make things
better. It’s the nature of victims to put up with a lot in order to live. I’m sure they pray
the world would care enough, to send someone from the outside to help them.  


“Injustice Euphoria” has the person believing they will be better off at the expense
of another’s happiness. IE can be as evil as arranging murders or as common place
as paying as little as possible. IE perpetrators need restraint, love and correction.
Being responsible for another’s unhappiness bears down on the IE perpetrator.
heart, and can lead to a very hard heart. Hard hearted IE perpetrators. have been
known to rationalize almost anything required, to maintain and raise their comfort
level. Focusing on comfort and nervously maintaining an unjust system increases
the need for outside symbols of prospering. IE can bring on a clouded view of
reality, causing the perpetrator to make poor decisions and get caught. (Giving
them enough rope) The treatment for injustice euphoria is to repent and work for a
just world, as hard as the unjust world was formerly encouraged. This will help
alleviate the suffering of
“Victims of Injustice.”












            ANARCHY
That’s where my troops are gonna be, In the din mindset of saying in all sorts of
ways "it's a free country".  I love America, but the Freedom to be "down on luck
homeless” can be a pretty heavy burden, so the rest of us can live in a free
country.  Like soldiers they get put in with the "Chemical Dependents" and the
"Mentally ill".  Talk about soldiers, the "Mentally ill" are probably akin to Navy Seals.  
They can live in an ocean of suspicion and fear for years, wading ashore for
necessities and then out, alone, back into the Ocean.  Delusions keep them afloat
staving off despair and pain.  Situations that might send us to go get help, is
another day in the life of a Seal.  No one to cry to, communicate with, share a warm
and fuzzy moment with.  Some take to the open road like "Top Guns" aces who see
the country in a whole new way.  NO Reservations, Travelers checks, Last known
address, Time of expected return. Slipping into conversations too intense for the
average Joe to endure all day. Trying to make some sense of this wild wild world,
that has put them on the street, taken away their family, and left them alone, under
cover with replacements always a few minutes away.  How much better things will be
then.  Hold on compatriot, dig in, soar higher, become evasive, bomb out of
frivolous commitments, connect with a believable delusion, PROCESS, react and
move on.  Just keep believing in JESUS and everything will be OK, right, or just
concentrate on breathing, or repeat some rhyming truism, hold on, whatever it
takes, just a little bit more.  Some Doctor didn't put out an APB on the patient who
didn't show up for the once a week inspection/shot. Two years later they take the
patient off the books because a mentally ill person failed to show up for an
appointment.  Then there are the Hospital Camps, where the understaffed "units"
treat sick people like they’re bad because they smoke in the bathroom, put their
feet up, and don't mop the floor.  At commissaries patients can get caffeine against
Drs orders, or, no one can get caffeine is another sick fix.  These Joe's and Jane’s
get a pill or two and try to figure out the new world they once lived in.  Coming
around with no consideration for the sincerity of intentions, standards upheld,
hardships endured, can be depressing and may be treated with another pill or two.  
A self defense reaction saying life has got to get better, is numbed and Lord knows
if they will get to a better place with other people. So that’s happening around the,
"Down on their luck" homeless.  The Trooper bearing the weight of trickle down
economics. October 20, 1998








Schizophrenia Rhyme
I started to hallucinate; to think is say a word,
Imagining a battle, things can really get absurd.
The Satanists were coming; I’m the watcher on the wall,
No one else to help me, I’ll just jump and fight them all.
Prayer and faith and humor, I can beat them if I try,
The things they said to hurt me, one time made me break and cry.
They said my sister’s dead, but she was valiant to the end,
So then I lived for both of us; my heart was on the mend.
I told them they were cowards, that their side would never win,
I said if they asked real nicely, Christ would wash away their sin.
They said they didn’t want it, and that sin was really fun,
They said around the corner was a man who had a gun.
I called them on their bluff; I put my faith in God above,
I focused on my savior, wrapped my faith inside his love.
For weeks I battled voices, saying this and saying that,
For someone without college, I could put them on the mat.
I told them it is written, then I’d put it in their face,
I knew that Jesus loved me, and that Bruce was on the case.
Bruce the peaceful warrior, only violent in thought,
The real world and the mystic, in-between where I was caught.
Pleasant on the outside, wrath of God was found within,
The hordes were out to get me, just cause I was Jesus’ kin.
It was humorous to think, that they would spend their time on me,
I reveled in the peace, that other folks would let me be.
I thought I was expendable, and peace would be the price,
I wanted to protect them all, the folks I thought were nice.
So bring it on you Devils, Christ has set me well apart,
I’ll hit you where you live, with wit and faith tuned to an art.
It is written, Jesus said, so I have faith, I’m not afraid,
And if you ask me nicely, I will run fast to your aid.
It’s not too late to change, until your heart ceases to beat,
And when that happens someday, there is no room for retreat.
They chased me to the hospital, and slowly slipped away,
I took the blue placeboes, till I finally saw the day.
I look back on my nightmare, hope that Jesus would be proud,
I did the best I could, I hope I stood out from the crowd.
I still can battle demons; sin is still alive and well,
I know I’m doing good, so I am not tricked into hell.
I feel a peace abiding, and I stay so very close,
I take my medication and I never miss a dose.   
By Bruce T. Duncanson










Dad
The problem with my Father is, he is mentally disturbed,
He takes his medication, He's still sick and I'm perturbed.
He makes up tales about us, things we've never ever done,
And when I say he's dreaming, He just thinks it's all in fun.
I'd free him from his misery, of wondering where is up,
Presuming that I'll take him home, and fix his daily sup.
He needs to have more money, is his commonest request,
A girlfriend would be wonderful, with tons of sexual zest.
I see him every month or so, and take him to the mall,
I love my father tons a lot, He's someone I can call,
He may not have his facts correct, about what's going on,
But this man really loves me; I can tell it’s not a con.
By Bruce T. Duncanson                    











Mentally Ill Homeless
The mentally ill homeless, that we see downtown each day,
Must have had a home scene once, where they could go and stay.
Home fell between the cracks I guess, they barely made it out,
I wonder what the deal was, that would make them take this route?
A little weird behavior, and their whisked right out the door,
Or maybe their just low on cash, not welcomed anymore.
If they're rich they get a shopping cart, if not it's just a bag,
Lose your shit and lose your shit, life can be so much a drag.
A car with intact windows, makes the winter not so grim,
A free lunch at the church a day, can leave them pretty thin.
Let's say they trust nobody, say they just don't trust a soul,
Dumpster food is all they trust, I doubt if they'll get full.
It's free and they don't want it, so it must be safe to eat,
Eat from dumpsters all day long, meander down the street.
Let's not forget the voices, or ideas that rule the sick,
They only have a clue to life, and worry it's a trick.
A cosmos in the making, is an awful place to hide,
We've got to help these people, where the hell's our civic pride?   
By Bruce T. Duncanson                           










Sickness
Schizophrenia ain't no fun; it ain't no fun at all,
It’s really quite a gas, to listen through a concrete wall.
The Pope is now in town I hear, to test me to the limit,
I won't worry bout my hunger, this new army needs me in it.
March around the town awhile, and do what err they say,
Lift my arm or limp a bit, to give myself away.
They want to know I hear them, make a big fool of myself,
Beware the evil agents; want my head upon a shelf.
They'll trick me making echoes, of your orders or my thoughts,
No one will risk to tell me, that I'm not Sir Lancelot.
They hear my thoughts around the world, so no one wants to help me,
I'll give away their position, and no good is always after me.
I turn around to knock them dead, the Satan boys and freaks,
I've no where near to rest my head, stay clear of little sneaks.
The medication works my friend; I also must stop listening,
I'm certainly glad it's over; you can see my smile glistening.
By Bruce T. Duncanson









Psychedelic Smart-alec
I'm running for my life now, running hard from Satan's own,
I let them think they've got me, kinda, sorta, throw a bone.
When chasing this disciple, they will have no time for others,
They think they have my number, but they sure don't have my Mothers.
They throw at me despair a lot, or doubt, that I can make it,
I made it when the chase began; I sorta like to fake it.
It's good that I attract them, waste they're time on little me,
The world keeps going round; the chase goes by for all to see.
To me my life is a chase scene, they chase me, and then I chase them,
I sorta wanna shake them, but I wanna shake their stem.
I want those jerks uprooted, out of action for the count,
But all I know is combat, please observe me on my mount.
Where do they get their grub from, when not chasing little me?
Who teaches them they're craftiness? please take some time to see.
My running now is fine, but come a day I'll want to rest,
I want to find a niche for me, where I can serve God best.
A warm and cozy bedroom, where it's safe to rest my head,
Without this psychic combat, sometimes wishing I was dead.
A place with folks and family, helping people day to day,
Aware that Satan’s out there, more than keeping him at bay.
Attacking war and hatred, with a soup spoon and a song,
Delivering his victims, to a place more right than wrong.
By Bruce T. Duncanson