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Tina RSH Mar 2019
Many words I despise to praise
and smiles forcefully produced
palms on their eyes, fretting
to eye the truth that tastes so bitter
but mixed with glitter looks just like gold
to the bare eye.
I dare not say
I fret to speak
what truth lies buried in their chest
They'd run a thousand miles away
and shriek at the top of their lungs
to rip that chest apart
dispose of a piece of art
but never hear these words..
Easy to forebear lies within lies
sweet and sinister, like robbing a maiden off virginity
far better to taste, way easier to digest
than relinquish your heart to her fresh love
That is what they desire, not so deeply
And I haul myself to write for a sea of lost souls
and rivers of forgotten tears as mine
whose owners please to shroud
from what's indeed all human
to see with heart, and devour with ears.
This goes to all of us. Whether you've had an emotion or not, if you've ever felt pain and wondered how to react to it, then this poem is yours.
Sara Ackermann Mar 2019
For love is not a violent thing, nor disparate in its act.
Anger, pain, and solitude
Are the walls of my protection;
With depression and desperation the depthless pit behind.

Break down these walls with gentleness and grit,
And bridge the gap through kindness and understanding.
Unlock the cage made of golden bars;
Release the love and tenderness within.

Wary be those who try to claim for selfishness and spite
For obstacles rebuild again
With rage and vengeance the guardian spears.
My meds turn me into a dimwitted *** (my perception), and I hate it. But they also let me know and feel love. When I'm off them, negative emotions are about the only thing I'm capable of feeling, and love becomes and thing my mind no longer comprehends. My heart and my body still do though.
Alek Mielnikow Mar 2019
You know the words
make little sense.
But they replay
over and over and over
in your head.
And no matter
how much you could just
let it go,
just let it all go,
the pain of what they said
still grows.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
When I first wrote this poem it was called (You know the words…), which is my go-to way of naming a poem that does not have a title. Due to technical difficulties I was unable to post the poem when I wanted to. In the week that proceeded I learned about the psychology term "introjection," and realized it was the right title to use.
Celeste Geld Mar 2019
Sunset grazing the horizon of my day
Where has it gone? My heart in dismay
The beauty escapes from the sides of my eyes
While my heart beats faster and faster
For the anticipation of the missing day.

Of all the things I want to accomplish
None of them done
Would I be content if only I could halt
To see the gratitude I yearn to express
But can’t find a way among all the distress

My chest crawls unreasonably
Watching a beautiful day turning into night
In contrast to my fear of missing out
My hand stutters and I reach for stillness
Although the wants seem so endless.
Psychic vicissitudes working cross purposes
One thought dissolves and another one surfaces
Feelings are fleeting
So watch as you’re greeting
The many sensations that consciousness furnishes
Bad Luck Feb 2019
I think I've always been alone . . .
At least, as long as I can remember.

But there's a part of me,
                       that still feels so connected --
To something near the source,
                        At the core of somewhere true.

Where we exist without our existence's limitations.
Where duality, begins to mean overlap,
                         And both fiction and fact,
                         One and yet another,
                         Things like "this" and "that"
                         Are the same, still . . .
Innocently unseparated,
                         In this place near to creation.

Maybe it's just my brain . . .
                        I do have a habit of creating dualities.
"Together, or apart? No," I think.
                       More like doubting infallibility.

                        --------------------------

So when I say I've always been alone,
I have to ask myself:

                                              "Have you really?"

"Of course you haven't been.
But who you are right now,
is no longer that you . . .
At least . . . not fully
."

                                      "So, if I was alone then,
                                       Does that mean that I
                                       might not be any longer?
"

"Oh, no."
I explained back to myself,
"I think you misunderstood me.
It's just . . .
That you'll never truly know,
Until there's nothing and nobody
."

                        --------------------------

That's a haunting truth to tell yourself,
            When you're off in your own head.
At least I won't be alone in my regret,
                         When I'm among the dead.
I'll find community in that.  
Surely,  that's the place to which I feel so connected!
The place where maybe two of myself is enough
                      to make just one of me feel,
Like I'm worth something more, than more or less,
                      In a place that's neither there, nor here . . .
At least, there, if I don't feel connected,
                     To myself, I may feel near.
Homunculus Feb 2019
There's a secret saboteur,
         hidden within everyone
Fashioning his cloak and dagger
         for a twisted bit of fun

The use of his first artifact is
         to eclipse the Inner Sun
The purpose of the second is for
         tearing holes so light may run

Through an ever looming darkness
         which obscures the thought of hope
Extending brittle olive branches
         or frayed lengths of climbing rope, so

That his ploys will surely tempt you
         that you'll try, and that you'll fail
Til his sadistic plotting leaves you
         feeling withered, weak, and frail

So joyously, he toys with thee,
         to watch his sullen victim
And thrives upon the notion that
         thou never wilt evict him

For how such lavish luxury
         couldst ever thou afford
When thou art but a lowly serf
         and He, a mighty Lord?

But if you only knew the truth
         it'd surely set you free!
That deep below the surface
         he is you, and you are he.

So, discipline this phantom
         tell him that you've had enough!
He struggles in control of you
         but you have called his bluff!

So now, you shatter chains that bind you
         now you break the psychic yoke
So now, you seize from him the dagger
         now you rip to shreds the cloak.
This is a poem is loosely based upon the Jungian archetype of the shadow. In analytical psychology, the shadow is the dark side of the psyche, which is typically repressed, and must be faced in order for the psyche to mature into individuation.

In Jung's own words: "The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it therefore,. as a rule, meets with considerable resistance. Indeed, self-knowledge as a psychotherapeutic measure frequently requires much painstaking work extending over a long period."

In the context of this poem, the shadow plays the role of the saboteur, who undermines the efforts of the ego below the level of consciousness, and ultimately deludes the ego into self deprecation. However, as the ego enters into a period of reflection, it comes to recognize the shadow and its effects on the process of psychic life, ultimately taking the first steps toward confronting the shadow and breaking its negative conditioning.

It is also worth noting that this piece is highly experimental for me, especially in its oscillation between archaic and contemporary usage. I will continue to edit, revise, amend, and re-write it as I see fit. And, after all, I still have quite a bit of Jungian theory to catch up on. However, I think this is a good start.
kyla marie Jan 2019
the early bird gets the worm, right?
wrong.

the early bird inches her way out of her nest in the morning, longing to stay snuggled up next to her lover.

the early bird leaves early so she can afford the rent on her nest that is falling apart.
the early bird goes to work and gets an early start on her day, just to come back home to an empty nest and sleep for three more hours.

the early bird takes long and scolding hot baths to ease her aching joints and to participate in some “self care”, even though it never really works.
the early bird stares at herself in the reflection of the faucet and dissociates.

the early bird takes some sleeping pills and tries to fall asleep at a reasonable time, so she can be an early riser the next day, too.
the early bird tosses and turns.

the early bird thinks about the dishes that are not  done.

the clothes are not washed.

lunch isn’t made for tomorrow.

the early bird has three tests this week in college and hasn’t studied for a single one.

the early bird hasn’t had *** in a week.

the early bird feels unnoticed.

the early bird feels like she is not enough.

the early bird feels like she will never be enough.
this is the first poem I have been compelled to write after about 5 years of not writing.
I wrote this in my bathtub.
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