"headcase" poems
I've been called
A freak
A ******
A headcase
I've been told that
I'm crazy
I'm insane
I'm bizzare
I've heard my actions are
Alarming
Unsettling
Offbeat
All of this may be true
But it's me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
The stakes are higher than some of my
worst friends on herbal fire
because every time I toss a buck to
Luck,
that homeward bound ****
who sits outside my door
and whistles at golden ******
I lose even more
of my soul
from which I shovel the monetary coal
that stokes my furnace
and keeps me humble,
earnest,
and whole.
I want to let the ***** man in
so I can hear him confess his sin
and let him attempt to begin
a transformation
into a muse
that I can use
to write my information.
I wish I could write
of ice cube light
but all that comes to wish me good night
are the kisses of blurred sight
pecked by the fright
born of hesitant insight.
A kiss.
A kiss.
More so a bite.
Beggar,I beg of you
if you are true;
Whisper to my hands
the plans
you can have them to do.
Because I'm tired
of being a liar
who screams on soap mausoleums
and puts exhibits in false museums
of how his heart
goes into his art
but all he really adds is the ****
part of the flesh
stolen from the mouth of Descartes.
Were that Luck were behind
every inky tittle and line
I wouldn't have to waste all this time
trying to weave together this rhyme.
I want to be my muse.
For now, though,
she'll have to do.
V^V^V^V^V^V^V
She knows better than I.
She does, she does, she does.
She knows better than I.
And she,
my muse,
makes me want to die.
She does, she does, she does.
I give her my eye and
never
ever
does she return my sky-blue eye.
"You don't even want it!"
I cry.
I cry with my one eye.
Screaming and tears.
Screaming tears.
Tears scream, you know.
I like to put on little shows
with my lil' screamers
and charge love
and harlequin femurs.
Exchange for tickets.
Exchange for a show.
And I cry like a proper ringleader.
There's no business like show business.
There's no business I know.
A quality show
Would be my muse killing me slow.
Maybe with her poetry.
Maybe with her face.
Maybe with a knife
keeping sickly pace
with the beating
of the heart
of a headcase.
Or maybe with outer space
like rumors of second base
with black lace
cast off
with grace.
I want the world out of my headspace.
There's no room for her there.
She knows she can fit.
She does, she does, she does.
But I keep forgetting.
I do, I do, I do.
I hope she kills me slowly
before I do,
I do, I do.
I do.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
You are depressed
And I am anxious
We are a headcase
And when you're crying,
I am swearing and probing
And when you're suicidal
I am angry and empty
I offer you no sympathy
And you ask for none
You offer me no comfort and I
Endlessly demand it.
Your depression (like an uncertain vice)
Squeezes around my life.
(i don't care if i live or die)
(an unintended pregnancy will be swiftly stopped with the death of its host)
(cancer may be met with a compliant body)
My anxiety (like a wet blanket)
Smothers your indifference out.
(you are nauseous with worry)
(my unending talk about cancer and pregnancy ***** the remaining life out of you)
(You love me but hate my conversation)
And now whose to say that
I am depressed and anxious and
You are anxious and depressed and
You're gone for the summer and
I'm home for the summer, wishing on blood.
We are a headcase.
And when you are worrying I am indifferent
And when you speak of death I listen without repulsion
And when I am anxious you are egging me on
And my Plan B is suicide (is it your Plan A?)
We're not okay, Lovey.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
Tough as nails punk rock scream-wet dream-teen girl.
A real wild child maneater.
LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION- Girl.
Small town girl chaos all over the big city- long days and drunk days.
Hazed afternoons on the boardwalk- sublime shirt and a longboard.
Shaved hair and skin tight pants- creepers and two toned ***** dance,
no highschool claptrap dance for our action girl.
She's crazy as the glue she sniffs- she lives on the edge, she built a home on the cliffs.
***** spunky hard as nails, screwloose downtown headcase.
Action all day, action all night- this girl don't back down from a fight.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
He came up to me
on the street
Looked at me long and hard
with chocolate brown eyes
that stared right through me
And said
You’re strikingly beautiful.
I gave him a soft smile,
Shook my head.
And said
No I’m not.
I’m a ******* headcase.
His turn to smile softly.
And he said
well you do the ******* headcase thing gloriously.
And he walked away.
I stared at corner where he turned for four hours.
Because it was the most alive I ever felt
and I didn’t want it to end just yet.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
they don't mean a **** thing
it's just words, decisions
made outside of my head
which, interestingly enough, is where the problem is rooted
these "risk factors" i supposedly show
what do they really, honestly signify?
that i'm mental, incompetent, a danger to myself?
words that a man in his fifties can scribble onto a piece of paper
and hand off to another man in his fifties
and it means the same thing across the board
because they apparently know what i'm thinking
how i'm feeling
they can see by the fact that i can't get out of bed most days
that i'm depressed
they know that because i hyperventilate over due dates and social situations
that i have generalized anxiety disorder
they conjecture that because i don't hesitate before crossing the main street on campus
i'm at a very high risk for suicide
i suppose none of these are far-off guesses
but my brain is not a textbook
and my thoughts are not teaching material
i am not a simple headcase!
i will not be simplified and generalized into the little boxes you've charted out
"here's where the depressed kids go"
"bipolar disorder falls here"
"eating disorders go in this corner to the left"
"watch the ones who want to **** themselves closely"
"it'll probably be a big show"
my thoughts, feelings, actions are not so easily categorized
yes, i've taken psychology
i know that freud claimed we're all acting on pent-up ****** rage
i know that skinner put rats in a box and thus proved behaviorism
i know that all of these men, they wrote papers and did experiments on how it's all inside our unconsciousness
my unconscious
i am not so easily uncovered
i refuse to put myself in a tiny box and let someone else dictate what is going on in my head just so he can receive a paycheck
i won't let someone pump xanax and prozac into me like it's nothing
i want to know that i'm not just going through a rough patch
i want to be certain that something is broken before i start fixing it
**** me or repair me
all i know is i won't go down without a fight
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
she kneels
and she kiss
grasshopper
she fight
to be
fluent
in longstanding
interruptions
she father
the skirted
issue
she make for mother
no baby
but tends
an entry
in
its travelogue
she not wear
anything
under
her clothes, tells me
she pray
to headcase
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
She's screaming at me
from the tile floor of the bathroom
and there's sick in her hair
so I just ring her mother.
I'm disgusted at her,
it's pathetic. I'm sick of listening
to this, and holding hair back,
and stuffing my hand down throats
to feel the ***** crawl back up to catch me.
I'm standing in a house in a bad estate
and it's 8AM
and how did I get here?
I left my friend behind in a bathroom
because I can't bare to see her and remember
crying in a nightclub bathroom in Carrick
and not knowing why.
The room is spinning, but at least I'm smiling.
I think this boy is quite pretty, really.
Where is she? Sprawled out, puking
in the sheets of her bed. I'm not sympathetic.
Take your medication you headcase,
we need it to function - just take it, I swear.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
I think of the way he landed me on the map,
the way the first time he sat on my bed across from me and tried to explain to me how he felt, I could feel it.
I could feel how the world seemed to shift into this small microcosm of a fragment in time.
I could relate to him in a way I could never relate to anyone.
I could see his mind flash through the same tickling sensations as it did for me.
Somehow in the minutes, I turned.
I pushed the mirror up to my own lense, saw how weak my knees had become, saw how little I had inhabited my own mind.
I sat with him while he burst through the rapid fire responses of his brain grasping for dopamine,
I closed my eyes and allowed deep breaths to overpower me while I pictured tall evergreen trees surrounded by fog.
I pictured us standing in the eerie forest holding hands, inhaling misty, deep cold breaths while our bodies regulated to the surroundings.
I envisioned the way he kissed, how his lips feverishly grasped for mine, how I could forget the way the world spun for hours, days, weeks.
I could be placed into moments and feel them over power me, how roses smelt, the sun slowly setting, the cars speeding past.
I took in the time I had with him, the calamity it provided my five senses while I stuck my head out of his passenger window and watched as the stars chased us across state lines.
I didn’t excuse my behavior, I didn’t hide it. I allowed him to see the four am hospital beds, how sometimes the only time I could breathe was if I rolled to my side and bit down.
I impulsively let him into my life, I opened the door wide open and allowed him to see the sides of myself I didn’t recognize, I’d never personally met, I let him love me for all of it.
I let him hate me for all of it.
I met myself through his perception of me, through the way he held me, pushed me, pulled me.
I opened my arms wide to the potential he provided, the small details he could pick out that no one had bothered to do.
I fell hard and deeply, impulsively and erratically.
But I didn’t blame mania,
I didn’t blame myself.
I just held it close and ingested the time I had,
the only way I knew how to with him,
by simply being unapologetically myself.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
an addiction with this piece of paper
my mind toiling as ink fly like feathers
a lost attraction to the time etched so thin
as words began to bleed from wells deep within
why is it that I cannot go to sleep
as phrases of day's wight whispers in my brain
I possibly cannot shut the voices out too steep
as eyes see transfixed to the matrix of veins
inky black scrawls, trailing the sheet
filled with idiocy, catastrophe pumped in trains
an anarchy implemented like bipolar sleet
as I cannot possibly decide which terrain to eat
so many possibilities edged on pointed ends
stick me with the blunted ends
so I won't bleed so much
as words fly shapeless as such
I am an addict to lunacy of words
cannot possibly retain all my thoughts
in one such designated, captivated skull
a contemplative headcase, basket case
caskets crazy and full
I will never be able to put down this pen
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC