"affective" poems
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity: a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/ass-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling: RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.
Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
Sparkling, silvery, shades of grey.
Skin, shivering, brain of dismay.
Trees, trancing, bare naked sky.
Patiently, pondering, preparing to fly.
Wind, whistling, a dancing swoon.
Sounds, serenading a sparkling moon.
Secret , system of the seasons.
The rhythm of winter needs no reasons.
Seasonal affective disorder,
Justify this infective inorder.
Jan 11, 2023
Jan 11, 2023 at 10:00 AM UTC
She ain't depressed, she sings all day
Songs of another devil
Saw a dog, stilted awning dance
Stay, another day
Still awake, dreaming
Sleeping at daybreak though
Silky and delicate
Submissive, absolute danger
Salted, assaulted, decompression
**** another detail written
Seasonal affective disorder
Sadly attained death
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 9:49 AM UTC
To the people who don’t or won’t support me,
I don’t live in your solitary reality.
I see the world in an equal and just perspective,
It’s affective, connected, receptive, near-perfected.
So I’m not going to heed your advice,
I knew as soon as I saw her, what I think is right,
I’m going to do what I was put here to do,
I refuse to listen to you and your out-dated views.
You say you will go to the city in the sky,
Way up high in the clouds, after you die,
And you say people like me will go to H-E-L-L,
Then I’m glad I’m not near you and your homophobic smell.
Plus, sending me back to my warm, homely home,
Your cult will crumble like the Colosseum of Rome.
You see, Satan is known for destruction and death,
So if you decide to oppose me, you just took your last breath.
I would kiss her right now, make you feel icky and horrible,
I would hold her hand; remind her she is adorable.
I would mess up her short, dark hedgehog hair,
I would gently hold her face in two hands and stare.
We would poke our tongues out at you, and then grin evilly,
Then skip away, holding hands, eyes twinkling gleefully.
Me and her, we don’t give a flying hoot what you think,
You’re small, insignificant to us, gone in a blink.
Me and her, we don’t want or care for your opinion,
You’re just doing what you’ve been told, like a good lil’ minion.
You go do your thing, and we’ll go do ours,
We will look up and follow the brightly glowing stars.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Looks like the law is outdated
And life is ******
The wrong traits tainted
Why millions don't make it
And elite want the nations brain dead
Tell the truth get incarcerated
Tell a lie and get elected
Educate yourself and be objective
Inspire and be creative
Leave a canvas for the underrated
Then the future will be painted
Each style is affective
Every style is effective
Universe is ancestry generater
Life is the relative consumer
While food is sprouting
And humans growing
Then humans nurturing
Law not needed for existing
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
i wonder if my suicide attempt did in fact **** me
and this is hell.
with each one, it seems to get worse.
time always moves backwards and then suddenly it’s forward.
i live in my memories. flashbacks. nightmares.
nightmares if i sleep at all.
and when i don’t, the friends behind my ear
keep me company.
the roommates in my head drown me
and blur my vision.
i feel red in my eyes when i get this way.
the stars fall like the burning fireballs they are
and the screams are unbearable
and the cries are aching
and my heart is being pulled out of my chest
like flowers off its root.
when i’m this way, i’d rather die.
parties isolate me.
loneliness swallows me in screaming and begging.
how did i get this way?
i don’t want it.
take it from me.
maybe then i’ll be able to live happy.
Jul 18, 2022
Jul 18, 2022 at 10:08 PM UTC
Imagine life as a panda, what would it be like?
We would eat, sleep and sit
Who knew, we’re so alike?
A sparkly fresh black paint and white, so different, you got to admit
That we’re so calm and we’re so perfectly sweet
Flute, is what we are, it fit
Our personality, so comfy that you will take a seat,
And listen to the music of nature.
However, we have another personality,
A brother that is: nosy and major!
But we are very protective,
We’re like a fluffy warm coat or a big fuzzy boot,
Wrapping around our love, and it’s very affective!
If you ask us, what panda smells like? Perfume or a fruit?
We’d say, we smell just like bamboo,
The smell of nature and our favorites!
And did you know that Oreo is our relative too?
Crunchy; tasty and creamy flavor!
We are different from the other bears
And that’s what made us unique!
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
We were states of matter
until we had chemistry
a pure of mix elements causing eradication
and more like atomic radiation
we were powerful
an affective pair
then biology taught me
to value every heart beat of yours
every tissue to cells
every cytoplasm to mitochondria
and that Czechoslovakia
that you were from
had a capital named Prague
during world history
but nothing interesting than your story
during our midnight phone call
then mathematics taught me to calculate the distance between us
and physics showed me our chance of collision in every single velocity
I have used all kinds of formulas I learnt to solve our problem
but dear
I got the answer of
good bye
Good bye,
High School.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
i am afraid of fall and winter.
i am afraid of the dropping temperature.
the trees slowly withering.
i am afraid of the short days.
and the dark mornings.
i am afraid of reliving the memories we made in the fall.
and how we broke in the winter.
my heart goes cold like the weather.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
here's to those with seasonal affective disorder that made it through the east coast's incredibly long winter. and here's to those that didn't.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
It's not bad to love someone so much
It's bad when thy other half
Canst show the same affections back!!!
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
Like everything I love the most,
I too, wither among the frost.
It bites at my skin
flows cold through my veins
like hospital iv
They call it seasonal
They call it affective
They call it disorder.
I call it "aching for the warm."
I have always hated to see my breath linger in the chill
as if to see my own exhale
is to see my living
is to see my eventual end.
Too many things die when the snow falls
I pray that I will not be one of them.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
Sunshine yawns, stretches and cracks through the sullen black out curtains of december.
it shudders my eyes to see what's like an earthquake in the sky.
mighty cries of yellow and gold speed through the coal of my horizon like a bamboo vine
like the wrinkles and ***** of an old school football beaten and broken by the ***** shoes of nasty schoolboys
frightening the mighty oppressors.
Seasonal Affective Disorder
I walk
I with a capital I because the quake of light resolves my sadness for a second or two.
a stillness in the air that
all that is lost is lost
and all that is won is won
and all we can do is rejoice in the now.
the light
presses the skeletons of naked wintered trees onto the bus' window
now pale and murky with the last of the black frost.
their bony fingers wrapped around my bus with the natural cradle of a mother to her new born babe.
I am one.
white puffs of yes tickle the big blue pond of nothingness while
steel bands of gold stretch across what was once such a dark and frightening place where i would become withered and broken as a plant beside a patient,
dying with them.
stretches over me like I'm looking up from beneath the bridge
instead of down to the sea below.
the sunlight washes an old town in gold
making it clean again.
the darkness is over and the new has begun.
all we have to do
hell, all we can do
is absorb it.
experience it.
survive it.
my pestering thoughts join me in looking across at what has been the source or so many sleepless nights for me and others;
together in peace for a few tender moments,
a football game in 1914, Christmas day.
January is now
spring is now
life is now.
he is here.
sunlight has awoken and is laughing with me once more.
I am in love.
and I am happy.
the bells of spring
peel like the layers of darkness above my head.
life is infinite once more
and the sunlight dances on the grave of sadness
and the world plays in major chord again.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, schizo-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
I wanna reach somewhere else,
For I do not belong here,
Listen to the silence of my panic.
I scream at the top of my voice,
Still, no one listens there,
Maybe I'm an alien here by choice.
I need a panacea for my ills,
A cure for my SADness,
Maybe then I won't get chills.
Schizo-Affective Disorder,
Its SADness destroys me,
Maybe I lack love in my life.
I really need a loving wife,
Who values me enough,
Maybe such a Naari is imaginary.
I am very hopeless in life,
SAD, but not suicidal,
Maybe I have a bigger destiny.
I carry the burden of my past,
Still, I need some love,
Maybe happiness seeks me too.
I am unaware of a true lover,
Who can love me more,
Maybe she exists only in my desires.
I hear that everybody deserves joy,
But I don't know why, but
Maybe my Karma is a bad accountant.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 6:29 AM UTC
Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,
how can I?
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection*
What you are about to read will shock you. Some may find it extremely disturbing. I will tell you from the outset, also, that i am quite "insane". According to the psychiatrists "Schizo-Affective". Manic-Depressive with Paranoid features.
I will freely admit that what you will read here will sound crazy. But please read on. It may be horrifying. It may be weird. It may seem extremely paranoid. But it still interests.
It is my desperate hope that you will read. And believe me. For, my "diagnosis" notwithstanding, I am as sane as the next "normal" person. *I AM NOT A LUNATIC!* What you are about to read really happened. *To ME*. It has plot twisting tension that could be put to the credit of Alfred Hitchcock. And a psychological horror that Steven King could emulate. How could I compare my writing to the genius of those great & talented men? I don't. Because, dear readers, I did not conceive of it. It was done to me. I merely convey the technology and techniques used to make any "normal person" appear a ****** Toon of 50 mile high proportions! It exists. And it is excruciatingly painful to be the subject of it.
So why would a girl from a comparatively small city, with no seeming accomplishments to commend her, and is actually quite unimportant, be the subject of such hateful torment? *What has she done?* I will convey ALL of the reasons. I did play a part in it. I had a tri-fold lawsuit against a once-high-profile video dating club, who wanted to prevent litigation by thoroughly discrediting me. And I had a very virulent and hateful foe...
The "Church" of SCIENTOLOGY.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
"Tell yourself I love you when I die."
Since then, burning my back on artificial heat has become my November addiction
The snow falling outside has been there for a week; it's getting old
And god, **** the man who invented movie theaters to take away from the magnificent show of the sky every morning and most nights
It will hit soon: the withdrawal of all the adventurous, summery memories our brains do not contain
We climbed a mountain, the literal ******
Seasonal affective disorder to the tee
No, don't drink that tea
Daughters playing in the background of a last kiss of a warm breath before it freezes
How delusional:
Allowing myself to fall asleep with the thought of March and you still underneath my fingernails
I wouldn't dare to crawl out, for it would be pointless to replace dirt with dirt
Where are your associates at?
Your support system is nothing short of the pipes of a flushing toilet in the dead of January
But here I am, supporting you with the twigs the trees call branches this time of year
Under the bed, missing four pairs of slippers
Too late to keep your toes moving
Slowly fewer mountains are climbed
Less smiles are shot anywhere near a window
And you're still breathing as far as I can tell, but the intense headache that forms when you are within a hundred-foot vicinity of myself is purely physical
Take that in
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
I want to run barefoot
But the bitter cold will blister my toes
And I want to pick flowers
But the winter winds have blown them all away,
The cold has crippled them to their death.
I want a friend that doesn't melt
Once time runs it's course
A love that doesn't halt
To drown you in remorse.
I want a river that won't freeze
When the temperature gets too low
I want the solemn summer breeze,
Not the cold winds that now blow.
They call it seasonal affective disorder,
Where the sun turns away from us,
You bury your shame in mortar
And the ice crystals bring back your blush
In those full cheeks, with no relief
We sing for the days we lost.
Pain is just a lowly cost
For the ataraxia to come.
So bite your nails till they bleed,
And pick away at the scars you made
Soon enough you will find what you need
As the seasons change, you must take it day by day.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
the cobwebs in the
moonlight
snatched her up while she
was sleeping
we didn't see her for
months
she fed on dust
& old photographs
when she rose she looked
more beautiful than
she ever
had
bathed in silver
& memory
she never forgot her place
in the line of
the earth
& every whimper kept me
tethered to her tears
in the winter she was lost
again
this time it's been for
years
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
The meal is lovely, yes,
I’m glad we came here.
The questions are arriving, not too heavily,
but drip-fed between mouthfuls.
Chew. Answer, a ladder of sentences.
Maybe I should be telling you
about the seasonal affective disorder,
or the fibromyalgia that attacks my back.
You’ll need to know this going forwards,
I'm sure.
You have already mentioned depression,
the gurgling storm in the brain.
I nod, offer empathy even though
I didn’t mean to.
The meal is lovely.
There’s a cherry birthmark blotch
on my right thigh you’ll see.
I don’t say this. It’s not appropriate.
We hide things
so we can make a game of it later.
Perhaps you play the flute,
collect comic books,
are an expert at knitting.
Weeks to trickle by treacle-like,
facts set to spring up as flowers.
Sip of drink to shut me up.
Our truths floating like shuttlecocks
across the table.
The meal? Yes, it’s lovely.
I am thinking of later, of tomorrow morning.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
Arrived late to the early bird special for the heavens of my mind
I'm a hard boiled egg in a soft shell crab waiting to be swallowed by a ***** swamp filled with ugly crocodiles in the same vein at the same time
Looking for a broader spectrum of potential unknowing whispers
whispered a sweet something about a whole lot of maybes in my ear lobe.
Caterpillars sing songs to September
slowly crawling back in time encouraging a butterfly of memories
where two left winged hearts collided making supper with our doubts
about unconcious recollections where we are mapping out the signs of new breakfast and bedrooms.
Investigate the vacancies of hearts you wish to keep with an open ended pitch of the other ones who seek you out.
Heart's for rent here
Who's the last tenant that moved out? Blur kaleidoscope of old addresses with similar layouts
Because you're looking for French bathtubs in old Victorians
And with the right selling line
It's just a vintage room lined with dusty curtains and a sunroof with penetrated ceilings
A character of wills you say,
blueprint of rented feelings.
Stir a cocktail of shock waves
from stone cold realizations
while i mull steadily on my unsure
recollection of what you meant when you said I'm the best thing
you've found in a long time.
But that's just a new line
you've heard wiser men say
So you say it without hesitation and
make earlier reservations.
God, this could take an hour
Or a second if your patient
Adapt to different payments
Unusual affective statements
Encase it in sarcastic shell
crack it by the cases
Sew it at the seams make sure
I seem real sure of your supposed
intentions.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Rambunctious thoughts, undeserving of birth,
Blotted onto the screen,
Uncontrollably checking scarce notifications,
He is not worth my impatient routine.
Will not let you implant in my head
Totally broken-up yet well-meant perspectives,
I wrote a letter but lacked the courage
To read with proper affective.
All I need is opportunity,
Inside me feelings brew and fester,
Mind is slowly poisoned,
I felt obsession pester.
Find reasons in overanalyzed words,
Left with echoes of the past,
Wolves begin to howl regretfully,
Our feral emotions somehow amassed.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
Simple yet a affective
We dream of the day without needing disinfectant
It's not that we are *****
It's that we are
And never will be clean
Enough
We will never be 100%
No germ
No ********
It's written in pen
But you accidentally smudged it with your freshly cleaned linen
We live in a world where everything is a mess
But optimistically call it's it
"A little spill"
Or "a few crumbs"
You never hear anyone talk about how ****** the world is
Like they're going to get something done
Not any sort of panic
No fear of the unknown
It's become so normal
That we forget that we are owned
Some one has a file with our name on it
In a drawer, in a room with only one door
But someone locked it
And no one knows who
But if there is anything to look forward to
There is a door
And behind it
The world is so much more
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC