"hypochondriac" poems
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
My friends a hypochondriac,
doctor twice a week.
He looks so strong and burly,
but feels so sick and meek.
He heard there is a cure out there,
that heals what ails him so.
I just don't have the heart to tell him,
he's taking a placebo.
My friend is big and mighty,
and the sugar pills do work.
He says he's never sick now,
no aches, and nothing hurts.
I'm happy for him, really,
though I wish he'd known much sooner,
that sugar pills have what it takes,
to heal the kids of boomers.
Our parents taught us to be weary,
as they had had no means,
to heal themselves in the time of war,
when they were all just teens.
But times have changed, and we can now,
heal most every sickness.
But still there are hypochondriacs,
needing sugar to cure weakness.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC
Health anxiety.
You google one thing and it says another.
You have a headache and it says its cancer.
Countless trips to your family doctor.
The test was negative, you will recover.
Everything is fine but you’re feeling awkward.
Maybe everything IS fine, perhaps you’re like an actor.
Acting out the symptoms you should get an oscar.
Sue me for feeling like somethings not right, get me a lawyer.
To everyone around me, i’m like a destroyer.
I need to rebuild my life from being an over reactor.
Theres a fine line between normal worry and anxiety.
Theres a fine line between being labelled from society.
Theres a fine line between being sick and being healthy.
But even those who are wealthy are not protected from being unhealthy.
And thats where this fear has developed.
Knowing the highest of classes still are not protected.
CEO’s can get cancer.
The president can get Alzheimer's.
Investors can get tumors.
Is it really so peculiar that I fear that this will occur.
Occur in me? Effect my family? Increase mortality?
Maybe i’m not a clinical case of a hypochondriac, but I feel that sometimes I can be.
Maybe i’m not a maniac, but I know I over worry.
These thoughts don’t keep me up at night, but when I’m sick I always think...
What if its this, what if its that, what if this thing can **** me.
But I guess thats just normal anxiety.
Evolutionary instinct.
Our human kind won’t go extinct.
I don’t need to talk this out with a shrink.
So this cold is lasting more than a few days, maybe i’ll just go to a doctor.
Stop fearing that this is the end, see someone and you’ll feel better.
You can get sick from being stressed, or even change from weather.
Its not strange if you catch a cold, no need to worry it won’t last forever.
When you feel like the doctor is wrong, please try to remember.
A runny nose isn’t cancer, forgetting to check the mail isn't alzheimers, and a headache isn’t a tumor.
Those are all just internet rumours.
Google isn’t your doctor.
Worrying isn’t hypochondria, no need to add that to your self diagnoses list.
While disease is a real thing, worrying is the real *****
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
I Hate you so.
Passion I feel.
I'll unwind you like bent steal.
I'll complain the whole time...
I'M no superwoman but I will be fine.
Unless you morph.
Comorbidity would make you worse.
So, I'll focus on a hearse...
Anxiety, you could take me there if I let you.
Your no depression- I'd never let you...
Many roots tangled so-
Still a solid foundation...(...)
Vacation?
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Generally, only more specific than that?
Please, if that is not too vague.
Whispering assumptions touch my face, and
cold fingers, like winter wind solidified into
ghosts and a smell that lingers in
innocent nostrils.
Enchanted by cancerous eyes that are
too much tombstone.
To fresh, the memory of decaying
melodies played by heartstrings in my innermost
love song,
I can not bare another death, another season laid to waste under
indifference, feigned or otherwise.
I could not handle another moment banished
into forgot exiles and requested reprieves from "reality."
But I grit my teeth to this
fabricated adversity,
this hypochondriac's molehill.
I will tell the devils to be silent,
to watch me grow wings,
not wings of angels or bats,
but wings of a lonely songbird who
relentlessly searches for harmony
in this dissonant world.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
What is, for you,
A raindrop
In a puddle
Is, for me,
A hurricane
Over the ocean
What is, for you,
A crack
In the pavement
Is, for me,
The beginning
Of an earthquake
What is, for you,
A simple,
Minute step
Is, for me,
A monumental,
Colossal devotion
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
Got a message from my half
Mrs. Hypochondriac
Moody right, moody right
Tell your CC
Let everyone know
Beatnik **** beatnik ****
Listen to that beaten sound
Keeps me running, keeps the engines hummin'
Listen to that beating sound
Tic Tac Tic Tac
Got a lookout for King Me
Watch your Q's and watch your P's
Dot your eyes and cross your tease
You're gonna see what you still won't believe
Birth your rumors of immortality
Pound them 'til I can't help but agree
But when the truth slays the light
Don't blame me
King Me King Me King Me King Me
I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King
Keep your filthy black stained hands off of my crown
Take up your own bleeding cross and ride it to town
I'm the King
Too good for my own good and don't give a fu ck
Hatching plans to freak out the Man
Got a meanness in me that I don't understand
A lie for a dollar, a life for a dime
There's a well, a deep, deep well I fell
Into once
Where in the tumbling I found
The true hidden meaning of falling down
The treasure at the bottom wasn't worth the minute
It took to get there
King Mad, King Mad, King Mad, King Mad
These songs for a King
King You and King Me
King Kong's a Ding ****
Monkey Tales
Banana on a stick
Dipped in black chocolate
Rancid and arcane
Read in, read in
The main character wears a black tunic
His queen is the one with the brain
Better half, better half she tells him
It's best you stay quiet you'll give it away
You've done enough damage for one other day
What's done is done
Nothing but another bridge to burn
Another corner to turn
She says
You understand it less than I
And your understanding is void and dry
Quiet now, my loveless love
My misunderstood drug
My salt melted slug
Quiet now, before people believe
In the nonsense you write, the ******** they read
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
It is so hard to swallow pills whole
they fight you at every effort
and when the day comes that you have swallowed too many,
your tongue will try and push them out
begging you
to please stop,
to live with the headache, the stomach ache, the pulled muscles and joint pain.
Refusing to be sixty at seventeen, you ignore it
and force yourself to swallow.
Anything to stay loose
and to stop the pounding in my head.
Stomach ulcers, blood clots
Doctors say I'm a hypochondriac
I know that I am
but the pills help
they do
all the asprin and ibuprophin
I think my body is half Clariton
Reverse bulimia
I make myself swallow
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
Nostalgic hypochondriac,
psychopathic goddess--we pray to your weekends.
Sunday night industries hold lunch breaks,
starting with a red bear,
a crude blue-eyed, red bear
by the hands of a child.
Soft steps. Physical form.
Its eyes suddenly gleam
as it moves,
red colors run
forming waving arms that swim into river canals.
Dripping rain forming acid that eats away at the sides of the darkroom. Winding staircase
trees rooted and spiraled like broken porcupine barbs existing off the wall. Each leaf made
of copper, tips of yellow
floating just as drops from the beginning,
expanding to the form
of hot air balloons.
Some of them supernova'd
--momentarily spreading themselves thin
--layers of butter coating this world.
each puddle of lard echoes with the voice
and memory of silver-eyed Alice
and her children.
Irises of cut granite,
wine-stained pupils,
she breaths like Jesus on the cross
--inhales of his bear pelt.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
behind pseudo sickness you crawl to me,
with your lies like flies between your teeth,
adderall caked on your cheeks. your fingers are
unwilling to leave prints, and i can only shake you
off.
yes, go leave. yes, escape if you must,
but i know any lands you walk on will spring with dead
weeds. because you twisted and turned me for two years,
speaking of love but instead giving me
icy nights and days full of eyeliner streaked tears.
go and live with your “gluten-sensitive” lifestyle,
your hypochondriac tainted glasses, seeing nothing but
no and no and no and empty voids,
running through role-plays that are always so much more appealing then
a beautiful girl who ripped her heart out for
you.
no, i’m not cynical. no, i’m not
angry.
i am frustrated. wishing you had cried for me for weeks, and i know
you didn’t. i am thinking of those bruises on your neck, your
**** buddy" and how your step-sister was a better choice
for you.
so leave, please, just leave.
and no, i don’t want to see you.
you can’t leave ashes in my mouth, not this time.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
I think I have Restless Mind Syndrome.
I have not had it diagnosed but it should be, I might need to suggest to my doctors to add it to the medical books.
I think on second thought if I made that suggestion, I might get a strange look.
I wonder if the doctor would think I was a hypochondriac.
The condition gets worse when I hit the pillow and try to sleep, and sometimes troubles me to the point were I become an Insomniac.
I think and think and think and my thoughts seem to swim; so much so that it is hard to keep track of were my thoughts end or begin.
If I was a drinker I might reach for some gin.
In cases like this it seems like my train of thought seemed to have derailed long ago.
The symptoms of my condition seem to be getting worse each year, one example is that when I try to write something down such as a phone number the numbers get messed up between my mind and the paper; It would appear that I have dyslexia because some numbers get reversed.
I get so frustrated to the point of tears at times, and fear that I am on the verge of losing my mind.
I think of all the things left to do, or think of things I should have done better, and I wonder what is the matter with me, when I think to much I fear insanity; I wish that I had a more normal mind.
I hope someone can find the cure for my Restless Mind soon before I run out of time.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
They slipped a roofie
in the wishing well
Now we're all on some ****** up
American wet dream
Baptize the ********
In the sacred swamps
laced with chemicals
They bottle feed
We're the children of the same struggle
Hungry ghosts of the nursery
Pacified by the message
they shoved down our throat
via the animation machinery
with malicious undertones
**** on this
Oral fixation
Choke on this
We can fix it
The problem you see
The problem we invented
it's what you want
to be ailed with*
The hypochondriac
vs. the human conditioning
Prescribed apathy
They want us numb
Some scared sick lullaby
along we hum
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Who is this young girl,
Thinking she has the right to be in my office?
I pretend to be nice,
I do all the tests,
After all, I can’t risk her suing for neglect.
I comfort her, by telling her it’s stress,
Indeed yes, this is all in her head.
I let her tell me all of her symptoms,
She must be a hypochondriac because how else would she have come up with all of that?
Nevertheless, so she can’t say I haven’t done my job,
I send her for an MRI and EEG,
I also use my favourite words:
I tell her it’s nothing sinister.
I can’t believe she’s wasting my time,
She has anxiety, her brain is all fine!
Now that I’ve ridden her off of my list,
I can move onto to patients, who are actually sick.
She walks in looking young and healthy,
Does she really expect me to believe her?
She’s too young to be sick, and all her tests say are that she needs a psychiatrist, not a neurologist.
I give the advice I’ve learnt from my medical degree, “just get on with life and do whatever you were doing. Go to university, you’ll be just fine! You can’t keep relying on your family forever.”
Poor them, they must be really fed up of her,
She’s just too lazy to make her own food, to get out of bed, to go alone to the toilet unaided.
Yeah, she can still go to university, it’s not like she needs 24/7 care in case she falls down the stairs!
I tell her she doesn’t need those crutches that she uses,
I tell her she’s wrong about social anxiety, although she says it’s much better and I’ve only known her five minutes,
She’s just stressed, her diagnosis is functional.
Six months later her MRI and EEG are normal,
But I already knew it would be,
I advise her doctor to sort her out with a psychiatrist, even though she’s already seen one because I don’t get paid to actually listen to people.
A year later and she’s trying to get another neurologist appointment?
We can’t be having that, let’s make her referral disappear!
She’s told an ophthalmologist she’s having temporary loss of vision, flashes of light?
Who even cares? It’s just in her mind.
She’s chased up how her urgent referral hasn’t be fulfilled in a month,
I guess I’ll have to write her doctor a letter then,
I’ll say it’s just migraine auras because when I saw her she was fine.
She’s only pretending to be disabled,
After all it’s functional so she must be pretty messed up inside.
I’m a doctor so people know I’m smart,
So I get good money,
I don’t need to actually believe my patients and look for things that are not obvious to see.
I’ll make sure she feels like she’s going crazy and will never be helped or believed.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
Alone I sit in the dark,
no light, no candle, not even a spark.
Wondering where the time has gone,
not even tired, can't even yawn.
Feels like I've been up for weeks,
tried all the sleeping techniques.
Took some pills and counted sheep,
but still I could not sleep.
I live the life of an insomniac,
some say I'm just a hypochondriac.
Watching television shows that are boring,
listening to my girlfriend loudly snoring.
Even tried some anesthesia,
that just left me with amnesia.
For a day I forgot my name,
when I remembered it was still the same.
Even tried getting hypnotized,
it didn't work but I improvised.
Told him a story about getting molested,
or maybe that's what he suggested.
So here I lie in my bed,
I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead.
Had a boxer punch me in the face,
now I have a fat lip and a nose out of place.
Tried some ****** so off I could doze,
eyes wide open, but my body was froze.
At this point I'd settle for a nap,
I'm so wired I might just snap.
Had a dentist give me some laughing gas,
the nitric oxide knocked me on my ***
Now I'm in a deep coma,
as for the dentist, he lost his diploma.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
My skin is warm
My bones are achey
Wrapped in blankets
Yet I'm still shaking
My head is pounding
My throat is sore
As I lie here ailing
My body's at war
My nose is running
Where to, I'm not sure
As I scour the internet
To find a quick cure
My vision is hazy
As I scroll through my options
Should I really trust random
Internet users' concoctions?
The coughing has started
I've just held back a sneeze
I've got to do something
Before I'm riddled with disease
I'll mix these ingredients
Then down them without attest
If this doesn't work out
At least I tried my best
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
(Sometimes I crackle,
like the sound of a pencil
that you wanted to break
to prove to yourself
that sometimes it's okay to break a pencil
and I wish I could see
beyond the horizon of my own mind
that glows with the simplest doubt
and with the simplest fear;
and so some wrinkles hide under other ones
disease and psychosis
are the best kind of blanket
like the forts you made as a kid
where you could hide and they'd find you
but you could still not listen; if you wanted to)
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 1:29 PM UTC
I’m becoming a hypochondriac
that thought brings on a panic attack
one sleepless night, I’m an insomniac
pain in arm, a heart attack
I’ve cut myself, septicemia
a sore eye, onset of glaucoma
if I look up any more on wikipedia
going to read myself into a coma
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Now alone in February,
little ghosts roam in your nuclei
as warm honey swelling from down to up
and shaped into circles just as so.
They wear you like a coat –
they make babies on the linen.
When you talk to other red-faced girls,
phantoms spread their legs
and replicate the words
into antennae that thaw your lone chest.
I apologize for having supposedly left,
but see, it is me you’re feeling
when you cannot breathe.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
Eating out is a nightmare
as every meal dissolves
into a food poisoning scare.
Riding the merry-go-round
is a disaster, your claim of being allergic
to horses forces them to shut it down.
Google is your friend,
symptom searches are endless
whether they're real or pretend.
While reading this poem
you begin to feel a bit worse for wear,
wishing you were in bed at home.
Headache?
Brain tumor is your answer.
Sore throat?
It's probably cancer.
You're not sure if your back hurts
or your kidneys are failing,
neurotic to a fault
you call in sick to your own wedding.
You even press for a second opinion
to see if it's serious,
nonetheless, we do wish you a speedy
recovery from your imaginary illness.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 6:06 PM UTC
It starts with a pin pick of blood
Stomach tightens and
You don't feel so good
The body begins to ache
Lungs start to hyperventilate
Though you try to manually regulate
The heart pounds and races
You clench your hands
Finding cuts in different places
Overwhelming pain sets in
Setting fire to the nerves
To repent for your sins
The limbs are lame and heavy
Broken pulls and levels
Effort makes you hot and sweaty
While life slips away
The mind will mistake
The remaining minutes for days.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
I asked him why he loved me
I said I was hysterical
A drama queen
Hypochondriac
What did he see in me
He replied
After a swig of dry red wine
My love
You're talking nonsense again
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
B egan the day with only half a face,
E xiled from normalcy with half-dead look.
L eft chewing on the right side without taste.
L eft side will not be moved except to droop.
S tress wakes the hypochondriac in me!
P er chance it was a stroke? The Doc said, No.
A ll signs point to a common malady,
L eaving inflicted many out the know.
S urvival is assured, but some will find,
Y outh’s strengths have now been ordered left behind.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
Call me a ********* cause I can't stay away.
I'm captured in the pain, the agony of love.
It's gnawing at my heart, and has been since the start.
Call me a sinner, cause I'll never be a saint.
The church has nothing left for me.
You are my religion and you're crawling in my veins.
You surely aren't an angel, at least not the kind with wings.
Still I'll always follow, the broken path you lead.
Call me a hypochondriac, I simply can't resist.
You suffocate me softly when you whisper in my ear.
Now I'm terrified that our first kiss will be my end.
You toy with my emotions, now my heart is caving in.
Our love is like poison.
Tragically, it's sweet.
I can't get enough, and it brings me to my knees.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 1:53 AM UTC