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carmen Jan 2014
I make lists
to organize my life into lines
on a page
some lists are for groceries
others for wishes
I make lists of "to do's"
for the satisfaction of crossing them off
I scribble thoughts onto paper in the late hours of the night
I make lots of lists
of things I'm grateful for
of goals still awaiting their accomplishment

to remind myself I exist

I guess it's also a form of obsessive compulsiveness
that comes with not knowing who you are
or being unsure of where you're going
I make lists
to slowly, deliberately, write myself into a person
cp
Don Bouchard Jun 2014
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss your timing.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.

I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor to have been
A gift, now long ago.

I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.

Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.

Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant
Be ******...
A stroke was taking down another man.

A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.

You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month.

Your children ordered oak, solid and strong,
Wheat sheaves bedeck the top,
Inlaid and waiting,
Ready for the coming harvest.
Companion to "Lydia"
Don Bouchard May 2015
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss you.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.

I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor had been a gift.

I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.

Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.

Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant be ******...
A stroke was taking down another man.

A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.

You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month covered in oak,
Wheat sheaves bedecking the heavy lid.

Inlaid and waiting, you rest,
Ready for the coming harvest.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i never imagined i'd be a poet, not
even likened to frank o'hara's
reminiscent astonishment back
when he played in the school play-ground,
i never intended to be a poet,
although i did write ****** poetry
on the sly, in books, in between
exams and lectures, but i came to poetry
in all earnest when everything else was
impossible, and because of the virtues i had
amassed prior, it became a "drug addiction;"
to state my virtues that precipitated into
poetry i'd choose three at the most:
compulsiveness for a need of repetition
(day by day, a day without a poem
makes me sick, to think of such days
as if i never made a step, made a footprint,
peered into my shadow),
love of music as greater than any kind
of diet - like a wild animal in reverse,
indeed stressed by the need for the daily
breadcrumbs, but soothed by music to
the extent of a satiated gut;
finally? i loved thinking, i don't know why,
not the sort of thinking that might exploit
others or give you things... the sort of
thinking that made my company acceptably
bearable, my own, the sort of thinking
that doesn't deserve company, friendship,
but deserves itself, to be staged for others
as if on the command of its own fleetingness,
scarcity, and perhaps qualified to be
given the adjective identifier of fulfilment,
as once noted: what's the meaning of life?
live it. in revision? what's the meaning of life?
your self. i don't mind rejections and upheavals
sycophants and lost ideals... but i'll tell you
what i mind:*

on such a dreary day as this one,
where a wintry shadow lost torso head and toe,
and settled in the air like a diluted
smoke of a fire, with auburn scents and
cinnamon mingling with ashes,
while i picked up the sunday newspaper
for the style, news review, culture and
magazine sections (the best day to read a
newspaper) - i took to sitting in the park,
bench, alone, looking south across the bulging
depths of seen but never travelled to
distances of my clever myopia,
i smoked two cigarettes, and felt the london
gloom rise, rise rise rise, above all expectation,
only because i had sunshine in a bottle
for company from dutch bavaria.
Adi N Sep 2020
Hello cosmos,
I ask for forgiveness
for every act of compulsiveness.
If royalty moost likely
spotlight ye would dodge
nonetheless anointed, deemed, granted...
within humble abode
of your lodge
most righteous, magnanimous, gracious...
among confrère noblesse oblige.

Methinks twas foolhardy of me
when joost a mere young man
(more'n half agoo me lifespan)
ye always acknowledging me birthdate,
(although tomorrow a day early,
and dollar long)
regarding thirteenth of Jan.

Your sisterly affection doth buoy
inside mine heart and soul
first born of three offspring
begat courtesy Boyce

and Harriet Harris handed lead role
par exemplar to officiate (figuratively)
filial obeisance, particularly
when older analogous to foal
abiding maternal horse sense, thus I extol.

As your brother, rhetorical question I ask
how often did thee deserve to bask
within metaphorical sunshine to exceed
regarding care and concern emotional task

tenderly "mothering" kith and kin,
ye divinely didst shew,
especially yours truly
now he dost rue
he rarely did communicate -
hermetically within his

hermetically sealed queue
detached, isolated, outsourced,
I may as well lived in Peru
(think Machu Picchu)
courtesy schizoid personality disorder
leavened, prepared, and sprinkled with

obsessive compulsiveness
for good measure ooh
and aah barely registered
consciousness, and knew
not what blessedness constituted hew
as tremendous precious jewel few

chore birthdays promise with clear clue
how ye go above and beyond
call of sisterly duty aware remaining life
(mine) would be far inadequate to accrue
equitable devotional, emotional,
and financial recompense.

Hence feeble attempt
to distill some essence
with words that appear
incomprehensible and dense,
cuz writing more comfortable

verses talking, which
often jabbering (more like a wookie)
(think fictional hirsute humanoids
in Star Wars universe)
often makes no cents.

Tempus fugit fleets at light speed
quasi immortality conferred as generations rebreed
all the while unwittingly transmitting indeed
idiosyncrasies, mutations, quarks... such as greed
myopia, selfishness... at death sorrow doth bleed.
Bryan Aug 2023
They call me the commisserist.
Formerly the lyricist,
Maniacal empiricist
The consequence of ignorance,
Innocence, and decadence,
Offensiveness and recklessness,
****** derivatives
And withdrawing cohabitatants.

It prolly made me who I am.

The evidence is obvious
In devious derrogitives.
Indeed it is a problem if
With copious admonishment,
Obnoxiousness and callousness,
Carnivorous compulsiveness
Fix Chemical imbalances,
Inglorious and various.

I'm demanding chariots
And lariats apochryphous
Precipitating blood and dust
To accolades appropriate.
Dangerous in hopelessness
Religion for the atheist
Unanimous consensus is
That weaknesses cannot exist
Within the noxious consciousness
Of Bryan the commisserist.
Just wanted to write something really lyrical. Try reading it out loud like rap lyrics, and good luck.
hgrbc Oct 2018
You wouldn't understand the struggle. Because as much as you try to hide it, you don't care. You don't know what I'm going through, and how stupidly hard it is to have all of this weight on my shoulders. And how all you do is add unnecessary weight. You wouldn't be capable of comprehending what goes through my mind. The suicidal thoughts, the obsessive compulsiveness of my actions, the need to harm myself, the hate for the skin I live in, the need to throw up after stuffing myself full, the incapability of just being normal. No. You wouldn't understand what it's like to have to deal with you. And as hard as I try to get away from you. You find me and destroy all the walls that I've built up and break me down even more. The words you say. Laced in hate and disappointment. Am I just not good enough? Mom? Just please tell why I can't do anything right. And why all I feel toward you is pity. Pity for the sad excuse of a mother you are. Because even when you're there, you are not. And honestly, J like it better when you casted me away and didn't give a ****.
Lovely Dec 2018
A bent and broken girl
Torn to shreds
Because the boy who was bothered
By her over excessive worrying
And her compulsiveness
And her feelings
Fearing her dragging him down too
So then they’ll both be blue
And she won’t be alone
In her sadness
But no
She will not allow him
To drag himself further
Than reached before
For her type of sadness
Spanned deeper than his deepest chasm
And her heart
Felt so many things
It could burst into flames
At any given moment
Her butterflies
Flapping around
Tickling her tummy
And filling her with worry
Of things yet to come
Valbona Oct 2020
At some point
Everything stops

I wanna be at a new level
I’m tired of this compulsiveness

Need to stop reading into this
Need to focus on baby girl
I gotta make a life or two when I get back

Listen, I’m gonna go back to me
I’m gonna peel back your skin
Let it rest in the sun to bake

I’ll let you continue on
Thinking you got the life here

I’ve got a little love left to give
It’s too late now

Pick up the pieces of your skin
Try putting them back together
It’ll never be the same

— The End —