#psychoanalysis
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.
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
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
quickly,
but,
quietly,
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
...nothing.
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
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 11:16 AM UTC
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.
Max
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 10:38 AM UTC
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.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch
This is not what I need . . .
anal-ysis,
paralysis,
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
supported
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, **** ***
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 3:03 AM UTC
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
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
__
Alpha
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!"
II
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.
III
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!
Omega
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.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC
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
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
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—
instead:
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.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
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
Primal
Monolithic
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
Going
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
Pulsing
A tongue pushes through bulbous lips
A throat runs into the earth
Saliva
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?
Nothing at all?
But what about us?
What will happen to us?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
Black mouths
Running down the walls
They gather here
But no one cares to see them
A dead worm sinks through the crust
And blood wells in
Where? Where? Where?
Shrinking to the bone
Where? Where? Where?
Kafka on the shore
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
Quoth the Ego:
"What's wrong with you;
why aren't you more like me?"
Quoth the Id:
"What's wrong with me;
why am I so unlike you?"
Both seem like Shadow to me,
but then again
that may perhaps be
simply my own projection.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
Success? Oh-ho!
You can’t just dabble in it, boy.
You need to bathe with it.
Wash your hair in it.
Spread it on your sandwiches.
Buy expensive jewelry for it.
Name your firstborn after it.
Don’t let psychoanalysts talk you out of it.
Tell everyone you know you have it.
Jump when it says jump.
And remember, at night!
When you and success are alone,
never close your eyes
to make sure it doesn’t sneak off
to embrace someone
more successful than you.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC