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That Girl Dec 2021
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.
Simon Jul 2020
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!
Amy Feb 2018
I feel trapped.
My hands shake as I wash them over and over
The freezing water drips from my fingers
I have to be clean

I flinch away.
My friend backs off, her eyes wide
I don't like the contact, it scares me
I must not get touched by germs

I'm tired and awake.
The stars outside my window are bright
I can't sleep because of them
I need darkness

I'm terrified.
I've been told I hoard things
Apparently, I need to get rid of my things
I can't lose anything

I want everything to end.
But I can't do anything
I want to end myself but I can't
I don't know what to do

Obsessive. Compulsive. Disorder.
I need help.
I had to do a drama performance at school about OCD and I had to research about it. I guess I wrote a poem as well *shrugs*
Oliver Henderson Jan 2017
you tapped my shoulder
and whispered in my ear

"thats wrong. fix it"

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

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
Jess Smith Apr 2014
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.

— The End —