Ellen West, the heroine of existential analysis, became the inspiration of the anti-psychiatrists, the incarnation of Freud's Dora and the fragmented poetry itself, combining Sylvia Plath's feebleness, Melanie Klein's schizoid structure and Petya Dubarova's night terrors. Here are some of the writings from her diaries. (You can't really tell if this is poetry or delirium, but it still moves me somehow, as it is saturated with feelings): 

I see the golden stars and how they dance;

It's night as yet, and chaos utterly.

Will with the early morn's clear countenance

Peace come to me at last, and harmony?

The entire world-picture is disarranged. As if I were bewitched. An evil spirit accompanies me and embitters my joy in everything. He distorts everything beautiful, everything simple, and makes a caricature out of it. 

My inner self is so closely connected with my body that they form a unity and together constitute my I, my illogical, nervous, individual I. 

As soon as I close my eyes, there come poems, poems, poems. If I wanted to write them all down I should have to fill pages and pages-hospital poems... weak and full of inner restraint.  They only beat their wings softly; but at least something is stirring. God grant that it may grow!