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Carlo C Gomez Sep 2021
She reads the flaxen paper on her wall,
sees its patterns,
touches them.

They project her confusion in cold chamber light.

Stained hands,
convoluted heartbeat,
she creeps into the wall's design.

"Hysteria every time she opens her mouth," said the doctor.
"Rest will cure her."

She is nostrum,
and not permitted
to participate in her own diagnosis.

A man decides how she is allowed to perceive
and speak about the world around her.

Next time you're alone, look quickly at the wallpaper.

Look for the patterns and lines and faces on the wall.

Look, if you can, for her, visible only
out of the corner of your eye...

Ken Pepiton Dec 2020
how does confidence work? {wizassume, control, I say}
effing around
ecting right - effectual
ual expectations seeing out
-proper angle aim

ritual window looking through
see through the eye,
be the face behind the mask,
speak as gods spake
in the dramas
- dharma play passion
dance in circumstanding
conserving eE qualia
sixty cycle key of being

You are the older of the two
minds used to operate your casing
think how you survived on mars, water

ah, Hailie Selassie can I lie and say I never knew
one wild black chic at the welfare office,
who wore one of those brass MGM lion buckles,
and swore it depicted the lion of the tribe of  Judah
aspect of Hailie Selassie…
You know he drank…
I queried her faith in the knowing, she whispered,
who knew who was otherwise,
secrets from the kiva,
live in the chakras
ladder of life
messengers meaning go do act re act

and after ever before
now became our

then. Now. You know the feeling, right?

How many seeds can one **** sow?

Semper fi. Such as use the faith in semper fi,

Tcells ever utter semper fi,
You know, in you, your Tcells never forget
who you are,
though as they age they allow odd
possibilities to challenge our

stay sharp. You asked for this.
Expertise, in a word,
perfectly right use-skill-knowing

inside out upside down and back
to wards of reason so gentle
any hint of war begging
reason for one  more

nay, nay, be tamed tongue of man,
be ware like, wait,
warlike did not work.
wait, calculate, go go go again
e be virus-virulent vigorous
closer, but…
Were you ai-mmmmming aiming I mean,
were you shooting me
a glance

across the way, wow, we do, yes
yes, alike
I think, Ja, like Einstein,
a little, but at thought speed,

due to mutablasphmisical re-ai-ties with time for children in it.
L-reala-aimouri, branded class of fictions,
legal as reminders, chemical stress tests, read

no. read. no. read. no… who cares

we settle or we splash, be hap may hap per pur pose
or none. Life is a joy in the living, I can imagine, as a word.
Those are suns, said Jesus to Bruno, see where that secret
takes you.
Youtubing down all the channels where things tell stories of thymus gland reinforcement trained T cells saving all my history of me from all manner of ills. Eulogy for my Thymus, soon to perish from this earth.
Astrea Oct 2020
Fickle is the
swirling haze of purple clouds
whispering phantom pleasure of a fleeting crowd
soft lilac and sorrowful wisteria
musing with the late spring’s hysteria
I am posting poems with pictures to better conjure the imagination in my poetic instagram account! You can find me in @xsummerblues if any of you are interested :)))
I: a paradox
Find peace in delirium
Grateful for the skill
A sleep deprivation induced  euphoria
Leigh Everhart Mar 2020
She is prone to bouts of hysteria.
She smokes on her front porch, eyes fixed on the drawling, dipping sun,
kicking at clumps of her wisterias.
She is getting hysterical. She is waiting for a miracle.
It finally arrives. She signs for it, waves off the deliveryman who offers to help bring it inside.
“Never mind,” she mutters to herself, to her future self, lugs it in, box and all, across the threshold,
old cigarette tossed forgotten by the road.
She unpacks it, checks for cracks, dusts it off, brushes down the Styrofoam packs.
“Hmm,” she hums, thumbs brushing across her forearms. Her fingers drum against the table.
Finally, she sets it on her mantle. She tilts her head left and right –
Maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the angle.
It’s the furniture, she decides. It doesn’t match, it clashes terribly. There’s really nothing she can do about it, there isn’t anything to be done.
She picks it up once again, looks it over, sighing deeply. She never keeps her receipts, never really returns anything, but with this – she’ll admit that she’s sincerely disappointed.
And she’s disjointed, she wants a Camel. She is certain the enamel of her two front teeth has started chipping, and then suddenly her miracle is slipping, tipping down out of her hands,
and there’s no way she can stop it
dropping down onto her tile, cracking out in violent pinwheels
smashing cleanly into a pile of useless shards on hard ceramic
and she can feel the teardrops starting; she doesn’t think that she can stand it –
because her miracle was precious;
because she thinks she would have kept it.
8M Aug 2019
Have you seen a young girl,
By the name of Octavia?
Intertwined with shadows,
Of playful voices of madness

Do you remember,
When everyone forgot her?
And she was left to wilt
Like a flower in the snow

Do you remember,
When she stopped being scared?
As the madness and hysteria became no different
In the eyes of lost Octavia

Do you remember,
The eldritch one who's Octavia?
That unsettling childishness of the maddened girl
Lingered in her parents' hearts

Have you seen a young girl,
By the name of Octavia?
She's running the corner store, smiling so sweetly
With a torn book in her hand...

and a sharp blade
A continuation of a previous poem. Read that one to understand.
Shargeel Sheikh Jul 2019
The petals of the rose i kiss,
Remind me of your lips,
Soft and tender and sweet,
like the forbidden whiskey in the moonlit,
which seduces me to sip,
In the dreams of my romance,
The taste of raspberry, the scent inflicts,
As i burn like a crimson rose,
With petals akin to the one i kiss,
It's wild, it's frenzy, it's illicit
Yushi Jan 2019
Aggrieved at that grievous throb
Betrayed by the rosy rose
Pricked by its deceitful thorns
Hit by the pang of remorse
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria.

Those bloodshot eyes, the sulking façade
Those falling pearls of repressed feelings
Let lose is the pain once gathered
Standing on the lousy tip of life’s reeling’s
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria.

This delirium of spleen
This rage I feel  towards all
All those merry, all those joyous
Jealous, for their luck is tall
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria

Deserving of desolate gloom
Meaning to feel the iniquity
The guilt of all my wrong doings
Is worth no good man’s pity.
There is one thing I can’t control,
The Hysteria.
Well, I know its long, but read it anyways.
Saphira Rose Dec 2018
I can't breathe, I scream, I scream though not out loud, inside of me I scream, my breath slowly withering. I can't seem to use my brain, or think straight. I want to throw a tantrum, cuss, and fight the world, do all I can do to try to breathe and maybe I'll make it through. Wait! What? Let me see what are these things that makes it so I can't breathe. one of them is math, though it might seem simple it's dreadfully terrifying, can't seem to get it straight... every turn my brain is rhyming. Another, is being told what to do, I want to be good, I want to obey and do it God's way, is it just the fall of Man that makes it this way? Or is it my own Rebellion that makes ME this way? ... the third one is the feeling of being lost, or stuck mentally or physically I can't stand it... it puts me in Hysteria, my mind starts screaming "let me out! let me out of here! I demand you to do what I say! I'm not your captive." Help! Help! I don't want to be this way. I can't breathe, I can't breathe... please
This is based upon an actual problem that I have, I still have no idea why this happens.
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