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It is the process of revealing oneself through which one can understand their infirmities and their powerless nature. Successful people will always build their lives around others. Because they are people who want to hear what they want to hear. But, being rich doesn't mean you automatically subjugate yourselves to the weaker philosophy and opinion of the crowd.

But, when we realize that we are different from the rest, therein lies our uniformity. In that clarity, you can see that your life is a search for individual truth. What is being unique?

Instead of a truth that is of cosmic proportions, we find ourselves in an abyss.

A child akin to his parents will think of how he can model himself. Notwithstanding, the parentage of a child becomes a vital factor in the moral upbringing of children. But, a child should be allowed to lead a life among the forests, oceans, and leaves rustling languidly. Thus, pursuing an education in the caprice of the divine and the grace of Earth.

That grace is not available in strictness of the cane, but it flows in the wings of birds.

Instead of forcing conformity on an infant, the perfect mother should propose that a child chose a path. They will react to the stimuli present in schoolyards, playgrounds, social gatherings. Later, a child explores a form of conscious intelligence. Here are places where children feel pressured to excel and become self-aware. But, that self-awareness comes from how close a child is to his parents. A child will never model his behavior to his parents unless he loves one of them more than the other. In other words, he respects one parent the more. It is enough for his subconscious to devise a manner in which he finds a partner similar to the parent he loves. But, the sole burden of pleasing the parent he respects forces him to model himself to the parent he respects.

In some ways, the partner a man chooses is someone he can never be. Free in the ways of the world, one with nature. In short, a child at heart.

This individual is made up of his prejudices, influences, and his little world of interests. Yet, instead of following the footsteps of the kinder parent, he replicates the behavior of the domineering figure of the house. A child's mind is made up from the moment he is born.
Small essay on the psychoanalysis of Freudian complexes and how they govern a person's future relationships as well as ****** endeavors.
manal Jan 2021
I want it to be so that
I am a dark mass of life
A dark, cataclysmic shroud of flesh
A size bigger than the problems I harbor; but not as big as my regrets.

Oh yes, to be a spiral of catastrophe, absorbing all that is in my path.
swallowing them,
engulfing them
spitting them out anew,
And whole again.

I sought to be the storm before the calm,
the pouring rain after the thunderclap of liquid-silver-lightning.
To be a wave of confidence and setting myself atop the horizon of other people’s views.

To gradually become a giant,
to be a whirlwind of

Meanwhile here, I am a cloud;
A cloud of doubtfulness,
Perspiring at the mere second
A weak faulty existence
I am the aftermath
The reconciliation
The ending of what was thought to be the beginning
A mere cloud,
amongst other things

I want it to be so that I float,
otherwise, I am drowning
My humidified scrawny legs are sweeping steel floors,
littered with reflections of redrafted selves.
Reflections that mirror the broken shards of one's psyche
expected to form a whole mirror.
I put my ten toes to the cold steel surface,
while dragging my past selves as we crawl
to where the Dim light is.

yet I do not cast any shadows.

I want it to be so that
I am the lord of the flies, to decompose in a cleanroom.
To assert my existence within these four walls, with my breathe alone shaking the inner workings of my rib cage.
I want to hear the echo of my heartbeat in the throats of others.
To engrave my face into the delicate insides of their skulls, indefinitely.
To be memorable— no,
To be remembered.
Because even then,
Even with the strength of ten worlds
Even with the confidence of an idle king,
Even with the assertion of the Ten Commandments.
I am merely but a figment of my own innovation.

Walking in the city seems to only expose lively souls,
where Dim city lights accentuate dull features,  
but even then—
Even with the Dim and powerful street lamps of the night cowering before my shadow,
It only seems to cast a dark reflection,
Articulated appearances and dialogues vibrate through the reflections cast by those Dim lamps,

And it was in that moment, I was acquainted with,
Someone I have not remembered
but someone I have chosen to forget
thoughts at 8:30
Max Neumann Dec 2020
today, sir, is the day to say thank you
and my way to do so, ermh --
is to write you a poem
i don't know about your past but your

knowledge of mine is vast
you knew me better than my parents
and you spotted the real me during our therapy never said my "father" that he

was proud of me -- but you did, you revealed in me the true kid because you have the gift to lead people to the place where their truth is; most people join the rat race, but you always kept the same pace and you

made it to erase my shame, healing people is what you're here for, reliable and faithful, and regardless of any writer's fame: YOU HAVE A NAME... an inner flame of kindness glows in your soul, you released me from my

blindness, and you helped me dealing with my tormenter: cole, i never felt that you played a role, i sensed you are whole, may god bless your four daughters, and i wished YOU had been my father, but thats fine: cause you

became a father figure, and soon i figured that your goodness makes you richer than a person owning millions, i do thank you a billion times for being
a mirror who is speaking, at our first session i

shivered, but hid it, you opened me, and noted nothing down, you just listened and saved me from drowning
each letter is for you, each word proves my gratitude how can you have this attitude? how do you do this?

im not idealizing, yet, you're my idol, cause you taught me bout my anger, that as a child, i never had a man as a rival, i had lost my destination and you were my arrival

Fakhri Khalik, you were my arrival.
You stopped my denial.
You are a huge part of my survival.

You are my arrival, I am your disciple.

Forever Yours.

Adonis Yerasimou Apr 2020
He couldn’t take his eyes off of his living room’s mirror.
His own reflection was staring back at him.

Mesmerized by his self’s own image-re-presentation as he was.
Wanting to see himself through an-other’s perspective.
Desiring to be seen as somebody else.
He went on to become one with the famous imago.

In an endless arms race, an endless metonymy, drifting as it is called,
He tried to achieve the unachievable.
He tried to attempt the impossible.
He wanted to do the non-doable.

Always, from a young age, feeling inadequate and insecure.
Because he deemed himself incapable of stretching his own existence,
To make it fit with the family’s ideals.

So he spent the rest of his life trying to be recognized as something.
As something which he wasn’t at all? Yes. (How tragic. How sad.)
That left him with nothing but rage, hopelessness and despair.
A bipolar marionette of somebody Else’s deadly painful pleasure.

Powerless as he was, he went on living while construing ******* solutions.
So that he could just "get by". A coward hiding behind somebody Else’s wants.
And then one day having said to everybody, everything that made him upset, he left this place.
He never came back.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch

This is not what I need . . .
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
with a stick and some string
until I emerge.
Your words
are not water. I need something
more nourishing,
like cherishing,
something essential, like love
so that when I climb
out of the lime
and the mulch. When I shove
myself up
from the muck . . .
we can ****.

Originally published by Unlikely Stories. Keywords/Tags: analysis, paralysis, psychoanalysis, words, nourishing, cherishing, essential, love, muck, ****, ***
Over and over again

the ongoing psychosis named reality

throws at us the vile complications of existence

like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll

when you are born among proletarians

and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist

like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights

men that walk the same sidewalk as you

the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions

trapped in the same staircase of materia

causing the universe to circle reason

and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence

like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film

as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern

battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses

while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues

like the sorrows of young Werther

in the blood of your martyred nightmares
Chris D Aechtner May 2018


While thunder clapped for an encore,
we put on iron boots
and danced in puddles
that reflected the obsidian
of Raven's crick-craw chorus
between the ripples.

I splashed with rod in hand, and yelled,
"You are the hammer and anvil,
I am the lightning! I am the quickening!"


They came from the East.

The ground shook, and cracks spread
from the pounding of their hammer-steps.
Wisakedjaks fled from roosts now pitched askew
by fingers that brushed the tips of pines
with every swing of lumbering limbs.

Lofty mouths inhaled the clouds
and blew out smoke rings on the wind.


I charged across the ground—a bolt—towards
the nearest Cyclops.
Like a sparking pinball, I zig-zagged
up the giant's shins,
past his thighs, and higher still,
then struck him in the eye.

And we became one—euphoria!


The Wisakedjaks repaired their nests,
and have less space in the minds of those

who found a scapegoat for mythologies
preached in smoke-filled rooms
where followers choke on the want to be saved.

Words were curved into a staff
that false Hermes uses to shepherd his flock:
people who pocket gold coins for Charon,
having surrendered the kingdom within—dead, though their bodies continue to pulse with life.
March 16, 2013

The version of "Omega" posted above
was written on May 6, 2018

This poem is more than 5 years old.
It involves a mix of reinvented mythology from 4
different cultures (and time periods).
Over the years, I've played around with the poem,
especially with "Omega", including how it shifts
between past and present tense.

Some people are probably more familiar with the
modernized, English classification of the bird
species, Wisakedjak (there are many variations
of its spelling according to tribe): Whiskey Jack.
In some North American-based First Nations
mythology, Wisakedjak is the Creator that caused
a "Great Flood" to cleanse the Earth of a creation
turned rotten. First Nations flood mythology existed
about 12,000 years before flood mythology first
sprang up in ancient Sumeria.
I believe that religions incorporate a regurgitation
of mythology.
Also, I believe that the strongest historical accounts
are a hybrid of fact and mythology, regardless of how much that might go against surface logic.
When historical accounts are comprised of supposed cold, hard facts, who was it who wrote such historical accounts? Why? What were their sources, biases, subjective angles, and perspectives?

In a lot of First Nations mythology, Raven, Coyote,
Turtle, Wisakedjak, etc., are not separate creators,
as they are shapeshifted forms of the same Creator.
Also, in such belief systems, it's understood that
the Creator, in all its different, shapeshifted forms,
is simultaneously singular and plural. That, and
the different forms of the Creator, have caused
problems with the translation and understanding
of First Nations mythology amongst some non
First Nations people.  

This post was formatted in a way that won't
cause unintended line breaks when viewed with
a smaller-screened mobile device.

Alaska Sep 2017
i'm seeing a psychoanalytic therapist
they want to analyze me
because my so called life has turned into the scariest
and somehow in a country of freedom i can't be free
they want to analyze me like a mathematician
analyzes the graph of an unknown function
psychiatric ward it says in the papers for my admission
i'm not crazy somebody please give me a definition
how do you think you can analyze a human
you can't look inside my mind
where all my thoughts are blooming
creating my emotions, feelings or something of an other kind
why do all my actions need a reason
how do you know i didn't write that poem
just to show them how i see the world
it doesn't necessarily mean i'm broken
just because you do not understand
doesn't mean I suffer from some unknown disease
why analyze a masterpiece
cause that's what every single human is
Alex Jimenez Apr 2016
Doctor, tell me:
What do you believe of a woman who envies
not the placement of the ******* sword
but the expectation
placed upon the glorified weapon
to penetrate the holy blossom positioned
between two soft mounds of rosy flesh that
she would die to run her mouth over?

Faceless textbooks whisper
of specialized jealousy
that I, for a lifetime,
will never comprehend—

Red rouge cheeks plastered against
a clear pane, staring at the winged
angel behind the counter;
Doctor, I hate being a consumer—
I would much rather use my hands
to create a small squeal from
behind her silver tongue
revealing what she thinks
about my manner of exclaiming desire:
writhing lust, ***** thirst,
with weighty spit and heavy breathing
again an instrumental soundtrack:
her movements, mattress creaking—

But Doctor, do you think I am sick?
What is my diagnosis if I can only find beauty
in this societal No-No,
if I have never been an artist
but I always find myself painting
wonderful masterpieces
(a protégé’s standard)
with a cut lock of her hair as a brush,
dipped in white crushed powder,
fresh from a plastic orange bottle
that fell off my desk—
Must I confess to another sin, as if this is the church of
my grandmother’s rosary-laden hands?
Yes, I am reluctantly in love with my Escitalopram
so I have flirted with Acceptance
but he did not seem to like me.

Look here—
Just yesterday
I tried to sell her portrait
to a blonde woman in a pristine art gallery
who peered at my matted hair and how
it fell over the sweater I was wearing,
stained with dark muck,
and I was sent away with the canvas
clutched loosely by my
trembling fingers so that it
barely escaped being dropped.

I do not have nails anymore, Doctor—
What do you make of that?
I have plucked them off their
respective beds and that makes me
feel a little sick but
all is well because it is infinitely better
for my girl's fragrant little blossoms
when she comes into my arms
and allows me to pick them,
one by one, as I roam her field—
Doctor, I would sooner live
in the crumbling pavements of Hell
for an eternity than lose the dreams
that I freely, frequently dream
regarding her and how my nubbed hands are held so dear.

Anyway, Doctor, you need not worry:
I will always have my Escitalopram.
Akemi Mar 2016
There are obsidian mouths
I’m edged white
Where is the light?
They’re screaming
Can we scream with them?
Teach us to sing
Yeah! Teach us to sing!
Stop it, you’re killing us
You’re going to **** us all
Teach us!
Can’t you see?
We’re trapped here
The grass is dead
The sky is dead
Teach us vocal stretches!
No one is listening
They’re dancing between the mouths
Heads replaced with streams of smoke
Rising into the sky
Day Two
Limbs stitched to the earth
We form a circle
We form a mouth
They’re gone
The empty mirrors
That stretched like maws into the sea
He’s singing
Sunbeams running through her skin
Today still hasn’t ended
A tongue arrives at the back of teeth
And twirls, and twirls, and
Day Three
We're moving to her now
Yes, yes!
I want to hear what she's doing!
I open the car tank
The edges are rimmed pink
A tongue pushes through bulbous lips
A throat runs into the earth
Gyoza! Gyoza!
Draw the earth back
Gyoza! Gyoza!
Draw it, draw it
Prove you exist
Prove you exist
Prove you exist
Prove you

Day Four
Where did everyone go?
Why did they do that?
Nothing at all?
But what about us?
What will happen to us?
We’ll most likely die soon, silly

March 2016

Get out of my dreams, Freud.
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