The thought of you terrified me at first. Another reason for someone to never love me. It brought me to tears. But when I heard my diagnosis… I smiled. I was relieved. My thoughts. My obsessions. My compulsions. They now had a name. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. OCD for short. My thoughts no longer defined me. They weren’t a part of me anymore. I knew what to call them. They had a name. And maybe since I knew their name, I could tell them to ******* leave.
Excitement is like an obsession! If taken for the abundance type of a seriousness going OVER someone’s own limits, that is… Then you’d have something of a problem to say the least… Problems that govern different types of obsessions from totally overshadowing something that was just supposed to be the time of a GREAT “excitement” to come! But what do we say about something becoming merely “overexcited” …? Easy. But simplified for ALL “hearts content”. Is that you start to lose yourself in whatever event this very excitement is “legitimately” taken from. And just as there’s different types of excitement, there’s also even more different types of obsessions. One I know VERY WELL…. Because I simply have it. It’s what’s known as "obsessive compulsive disorder" (OCD)!
Poem about how excitement itself is like an obsession. Therefore, it could be either mistaken, or fully taken as OCD itself. PS... Entirely depends on your actions!
my gaze followed your long, boney finger down to the skewed papers on the desk next to mine
i simply shook my head and answered with "no, thats not mine to touch"
i started to ignore your fervent tapping and whispering but it moved up to screaming and shaking my body i couldnt hold myself back any longer
i quickly grabbed the papers and filed them making sure they were neat before setting them back down
you were happy it was casual it was normal
so i started to live by your rules letting your gentle taps and whispers tell me what to do
i would fold my gym clothes in the same order every day i would sanitize my hands before and after every single class i would fix peoples binders, paper, and pencils just to please you
then it changed
others started to laugh mess up the clothes i neatly folded push my papers out of order hold me back as they made everything crooked watching me struggle against their hands as i tried to break free to fix it all
you were screaming telling me how those fingertips were touching my body infecting me
you were violently shaking me saying how wrong the mess was that i had to fix it
fix it fix it fix it
i still do as you say abide by your rules the laughing and taunting has disappeared now as i freely fix my things
theres the occasional question and statement "why dont you just leave it?" "it isnt that important" "the mess wont affect you"
none of them know of you looming behind me a strict ruler of my mind telling me they were wrong
no none of them will know they wouldnt never understand how important your pure touches and words are to the filthy, messy place that is my mind
His eyes were summer rain, so new and inviting. But they were speckled with storms, and soon he looked as damaged as you. His face, a cocktail of 1 part sunken in and 4 parts tired. You don't know who he is, he doesn't know who he is, and then a stranger is living in your home. Every mannerism of his multiplied by 12, 7 days a week. And your avoiding meals, date nights, and sleeping in the same bed. You still love him but you can feel your life being consumed by the tics, every repetition a crack in cement. It is still possible to repair a broken sidewalk, let a flower grow from its scars but hes falling deeper with every flick of the light switch or pace of the hall. x12 x12 x12 You wonder if, like everything else, his heart will break twelve times too. Or is that the only thing that's safe from his hell.