"hypochondriacs" poems - Hello Poetry

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.

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Dec 5, 2014

Dec 5, 2014 at 3:10 AM UTC

CheckThisShitOut

"Hypochondria" - 6-Minute Poem Series

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.

24

Short and sweet like the life of the diabetic We're all hypochondriacs To the human conditioning We've been taught to be themselves not ourselves. No child left behind while evolution is staggering Tripping our own feet divided by class systems Get off my lawn They're still asking, "where do you see yourselves in 5 years?" and I still don't know, this short-term impulse control needs to learn longevity

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Mar 8, 2013

Mar 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC

kenny

Get Off My Lawn

Short and sweet like the life of the diabetic We're all hypochondriacs To the human conditioning We've been taught to be themselves not ourselves. No child left behind while evolution is staggering Tripping our own feet divided by class systems Get off my lawn They're still asking, "where do you see yourselves in 5 years?" and I still don't know, this short-term impulse control needs to learn longevity

14

It happened early one morning. It happened like it always does, times 3. Strapped, armed, holding hands what every loving mother shouldn't do. Word of it traveled like the winter flu, by noon everybody had heard of maniacal faithers who took home her children lighting up fireworks. The sun blazed dazedly evaporating 3 crosses, not quite melting the ice. Until it reached my porch step, it were but distant voices. now it's here and real. like it always is of course but now it's closer than ever bursting at my door. Sliced up like a juicy tomato his screams are muffled by a screen screening bright information into the heads of mouths who offer surreal commentary disguised as jokes. We're terrified. We're hypochondriacs fearing contamination of a rampant plague. A plague we've never seen before. Our ****** eyes. So many have already been ***** by fate. Faith in fatherly beards granting wishes to obedient children who go tarnishing other fathers' gardens. What an absurd world where IS is ice that cannot melt. What an absurd world where children weep at mothers' debt. What an absurd world where faithful supremity reigns unchecked.

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May 27, 2018

May 27, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC

Esoscript

Surabaya

It happened early one morning. It happened like it always does, times 3. Strapped, armed, holding hands what every loving mother shouldn't do. Word of it traveled like the winter flu, by noon everybody had heard of maniacal faithers who took home her children lighting up fireworks. The sun blazed dazedly evaporating 3 crosses, not quite melting the ice. Until it reached my porch step, it were but distant voices. now it's here and real. like it always is of course but now it's closer than ever bursting at my door. Sliced up like a juicy tomato his screams are muffled by a screen screening bright information into the heads of mouths who offer surreal commentary disguised as jokes. We're terrified. We're hypochondriacs fearing contamination of a rampant plague. A plague we've never seen before. Our ****** eyes. So many have already been ***** by fate. Faith in fatherly beards granting wishes to obedient children who go tarnishing other fathers' gardens. What an absurd world where IS is ice that cannot melt. What an absurd world where children weep at mothers' debt. What an absurd world where faithful supremity reigns unchecked.

48

Living a hypochondriacs dream, Because my pain is one that is real. Everyone says I'm fine, But I know my own body because my body is mine, Life developing as a double exposure, In two places at once and contained in a tight enclosure, Here I am with no sense of closure, I will dream of running away, Throwing my possessions away, Put my worry to rest, Before I am the one put to rest.

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Feb 3, 2016

Feb 3, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC

laura-dodds

Undiagnosed

Living a hypochondriacs dream, Because my pain is one that is real. Everyone says I'm fine, But I know my own body because my body is mine, Life developing as a double exposure, In two places at once and contained in a tight enclosure, Here I am with no sense of closure, I will dream of running away, Throwing my possessions away, Put my worry to rest, Before I am the one put to rest.

11

And I feel this sludge running down the long halls of my legs a flood of viscous petrol jelly slick sewage sick patrolling artery walls this metallic slide so much molten lava running down the mountains of my thighs. I'm a concrete machine getting my mortar fix tin woman hollow heart methyl folate ****** Give me another hit buffer my pain. Already I have diesel fuel juice leeching out my tissues lightning striking the brain. It's hard to get your attention with this leavening pooling the blood in my feet It's hard to say hello with acid cuddled words. I want to raise my arms and touch you but I'm too toxic I'll burn you. This nausea has become me this metabolic crash is my stop-gap. Short circuit pain this neuropathy has hardened me in the space between these synapses I dream of nothing. Doped up by the yellow stuff Daddy sprays from the plane I was a farmer's daughter but the doctor says You've got the mutant gene, for heavy metal toxicity. Another serotonin addict with brains of saccharine and plastic I might get a pink ribbon for surviving if they call it disease, but silently, inside I feel this sludge sick sewage slick battening down the reflexes backing up the pipes. my body is the future body I say. because this deadly brigade is eating up the human chain. There were Chernobyl defects, and the media loves lepers with lesions but a blistered stillborn baby is no face for nuclear policy but we --we're the unsung mutant breed-- there are billions of us mentally sick lazy fucks, hypochondriacs of pre-existing conditions can't find work not even at Walmart for disability aid-- But when you check out, please donate. Drop another baby in the cancer cup.

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Aug 7, 2012

Aug 7, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC

sean

Future-sick

And I feel this sludge running down the long halls of my legs a flood of viscous petrol jelly slick sewage sick patrolling artery walls this metallic slide so much molten lava running down the mountains of my thighs. I'm a concrete machine getting my mortar fix tin woman hollow heart methyl folate ****** Give me another hit buffer my pain. Already I have diesel fuel juice leeching out my tissues lightning striking the brain. It's hard to get your attention with this leavening pooling the blood in my feet It's hard to say hello with acid cuddled words. I want to raise my arms and touch you but I'm too toxic I'll burn you. This nausea has become me this metabolic crash is my stop-gap. Short circuit pain this neuropathy has hardened me in the space between these synapses I dream of nothing. Doped up by the yellow stuff Daddy sprays from the plane I was a farmer's daughter but the doctor says You've got the mutant gene, for heavy metal toxicity. Another serotonin addict with brains of saccharine and plastic I might get a pink ribbon for surviving if they call it disease, but silently, inside I feel this sludge sick sewage slick battening down the reflexes backing up the pipes. my body is the future body I say. because this deadly brigade is eating up the human chain. There were Chernobyl defects, and the media loves lepers with lesions but a blistered stillborn baby is no face for nuclear policy but we --we're the unsung mutant breed-- there are billions of us mentally sick lazy fucks, hypochondriacs of pre-existing conditions can't find work not even at Walmart for disability aid-- But when you check out, please donate. Drop another baby in the cancer cup.

68

Conjure belief where assurance is easily tempted from doubt. The physical world acts on a point to point basis of action, reaction. Where the genesis of relativity as the golden rule mediates the knowledge that is perpetuated by irony through circumstance and the accidental incidental coincidences that bend time. Symmetry is a natural motion of consistency, extending from an apex or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions all from some single origin. The palms of our hands are textual markings of our need for symbolic understanding in the variances we create for scientific observation. Juxtaposed to the stars we created circular pieces to a wheel in the sky we hypochondriacs believe to superimpose as vaccines, to our inconsistencies we host as symbiotes for inverse proportionality. From the signal, beat, tone, and definitive sounds is the pulse of our momentum, a return to equilibrium.

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Jan 23, 2010

Jan 23, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC

agdppoetry

linerarities

Conjure belief where assurance is easily tempted from doubt. The physical world acts on a point to point basis of action, reaction. Where the genesis of relativity as the golden rule mediates the knowledge that is perpetuated by irony through circumstance and the accidental incidental coincidences that bend time. Symmetry is a natural motion of consistency, extending from an apex or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions all from some single origin. The palms of our hands are textual markings of our need for symbolic understanding in the variances we create for scientific observation. Juxtaposed to the stars we created circular pieces to a wheel in the sky we hypochondriacs believe to superimpose as vaccines, to our inconsistencies we host as symbiotes for inverse proportionality. From the signal, beat, tone, and definitive sounds is the pulse of our momentum, a return to equilibrium.

33

I miss you like maps miss fingers, Like mikes miss singers, Like hells bells miss ringers, Like bringers miss takers, Like ******* miss fakers, Like cakes miss bakers, Like lakes miss boats, Like bad swimmers miss floats, Like politicians miss votes, Like doting parents miss school plays, Like nymphomaniacs miss lays, Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions, Like ****** misses addictions, Like carpets miss friction, Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts, Like the grim reaper misses grief, Like Henry misses the good fellas, Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas, Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles, Like rabid dogs miss muzzles, Like Van Gough missed his brushes, Like speed freaks miss rushes, Like pens miss paper, Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater, Like the canvas misses the creator, Like the thirsty miss water, Like the hungry miss food, Like ***** miss the lewd, Like the mind misses mood, Like the tides miss the moon, Like the sane miss the loons, Like the dark misses the light, Like the brave miss the fright, Like the kite misses the wind. I miss everything.

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Nov 7, 2013

Nov 7, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC

simon-soane

You stayed at home

I miss you like maps miss fingers, Like mikes miss singers, Like hells bells miss ringers, Like bringers miss takers, Like ******* miss fakers, Like cakes miss bakers, Like lakes miss boats, Like bad swimmers miss floats, Like politicians miss votes, Like doting parents miss school plays, Like nymphomaniacs miss lays, Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions, Like ****** misses addictions, Like carpets miss friction, Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts, Like the grim reaper misses grief, Like Henry misses the good fellas, Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas, Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles, Like rabid dogs miss muzzles, Like Van Gough missed his brushes, Like speed freaks miss rushes, Like pens miss paper, Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater, Like the canvas misses the creator, Like the thirsty miss water, Like the hungry miss food, Like ***** miss the lewd, Like the mind misses mood, Like the tides miss the moon, Like the sane miss the loons, Like the dark misses the light, Like the brave miss the fright, Like the kite misses the wind. I miss everything.

35

Is life imitating art or is art imitating life? Eventually there will be nothing left to hide Save your sorrys It's time for me to cool your mind and tell you it's all alright We're the pop-up's on your phone screen Sending you little blurbs Memes are funny because they're true At least to you You're the hypochondriacs Who convinced yourselves you need to be healed With a numbness cure by posts that make you feel There will be a new one, if you like the last Is life imitating art or is art imitating life? Eventually there will be no where left to hide Save your sorrys It's time for me to cool your mind and tell you it's all alright This is a beat generation But with less respect but way more dope The question is "why should I?" Our answer is always "I don't know" We're yesterdays news and tomorrows punchline Never even had chance Self-entitlement won't ease the situation Of our need for instant gratification I need a drink in my system to take off the edge I need a lie to make me feel safe I have an axe in my skull splitting my brain Is it me or the world who's insane? Upload, like, follow Reblog, comment, unfollow What's hot is hot now but not tomorrow Will your words hold up or drop out? -Tommy Johnson

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Oct 20, 2015

Oct 20, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC

tommy-johnson

Comedown

Is life imitating art or is art imitating life? Eventually there will be nothing left to hide Save your sorrys It's time for me to cool your mind and tell you it's all alright We're the pop-up's on your phone screen Sending you little blurbs Memes are funny because they're true At least to you You're the hypochondriacs Who convinced yourselves you need to be healed With a numbness cure by posts that make you feel There will be a new one, if you like the last Is life imitating art or is art imitating life? Eventually there will be no where left to hide Save your sorrys It's time for me to cool your mind and tell you it's all alright This is a beat generation But with less respect but way more dope The question is "why should I?" Our answer is always "I don't know" We're yesterdays news and tomorrows punchline Never even had chance Self-entitlement won't ease the situation Of our need for instant gratification I need a drink in my system to take off the edge I need a lie to make me feel safe I have an axe in my skull splitting my brain Is it me or the world who's insane? Upload, like, follow Reblog, comment, unfollow What's hot is hot now but not tomorrow Will your words hold up or drop out? -Tommy Johnson

33

In a world where we had it all, There was absent fathers and hypochondriacs for mothers all around, Maybe I could be normal one day, I thought such stupid things all to myself. Thinking back none of this was my fault, But the one who points blame gets their finger cut off, And I've learned to not speak unless spoken to, After all this time are you even proud of me? What do I have to prove to get through to you? All these pretty little pills, They're the only thing that matters, They were there when you weren't, And admittingly I need them to get me through the days, It was hard to say the least, Such a lack of control, But it's all okay, can you just put your trust into me, I promise the children are as fine as can be. How can I rebuild hopelessness, When we're all so hopelessly hopeful? Picking at our scabs like their nothing, And I know in the most dismal of days my heart will sink down into my stomach, I know this so why do we pretend that everything is just going to be fine. It's never gonna be okay I see this now, The forecast is pain and suffering, I've learned to accept this so why can't you just fake a pretty little smile? And now I'm even alright when I know I'm not.. The children are crying their ******* eyes out, Self medicating with these pretty little pills in their mouths, And before it all goes south and I put this gun in my mouth, Paint my thoughts all over the walls, Well I just want to preserve the person I made myself out to be, The one who makes it through the day, So no one forgets how strong I can be!

0

Jul 1, 2015

Jul 1, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC

Darvaydavids

Pretty little pills

In a world where we had it all, There was absent fathers and hypochondriacs for mothers all around, Maybe I could be normal one day, I thought such stupid things all to myself. Thinking back none of this was my fault, But the one who points blame gets their finger cut off, And I've learned to not speak unless spoken to, After all this time are you even proud of me? What do I have to prove to get through to you? All these pretty little pills, They're the only thing that matters, They were there when you weren't, And admittingly I need them to get me through the days, It was hard to say the least, Such a lack of control, But it's all okay, can you just put your trust into me, I promise the children are as fine as can be. How can I rebuild hopelessness, When we're all so hopelessly hopeful? Picking at our scabs like their nothing, And I know in the most dismal of days my heart will sink down into my stomach, I know this so why do we pretend that everything is just going to be fine. It's never gonna be okay I see this now, The forecast is pain and suffering, I've learned to accept this so why can't you just fake a pretty little smile? And now I'm even alright when I know I'm not.. The children are crying their ******* eyes out, Self medicating with these pretty little pills in their mouths, And before it all goes south and I put this gun in my mouth, Paint my thoughts all over the walls, Well I just want to preserve the person I made myself out to be, The one who makes it through the day, So no one forgets how strong I can be!

34

The problem with hypochondriacs Is that they outlive the rest of us. "I can’t last long" You'll hear them swear But just like tax they’re always there.

0

Oct 28, 2014

Oct 28, 2014 at 6:29 AM UTC

joseph-sinclair

DON’T WAIT FOR ME

The problem with hypochondriacs Is that they outlive the rest of us. "I can’t last long" You'll hear them swear But just like tax they’re always there.

5

I miss you like maps miss fingers, Like mikes miss singers, Like bells miss ringers, Like cakes miss bakers, Like lakes miss boats, Like bad swimmers miss floats, Like politicians miss votes, Like doting parents miss school plays, Like nymphomaniacs miss lays, Like necrophiliacs miss graves, Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions, Like ****** misses addictions, Like carpets miss friction, Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts, Like the grim reaper misses grief, Like Henry misses the goodfellas, Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas, Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles, Like rabid dogs miss muzzles, Like Van Gough missed his brushes, Like speed freaks miss rushes, Like pens miss paper, Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater, Like the canvas misses the creator, Like how the thirsty miss water, Like the hungry miss food, Like ***** miss the lewd, Like the mind misses mood, Like the tides miss the moon, Like the sane miss the loons, Like the dark misses the light, Like the brave miss the fright, Like the kite misses the wind. Like a phone misses a ring Like every misses thing.

0

Jun 3, 2016

Jun 3, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC

simon-soane

Miss

I miss you like maps miss fingers, Like mikes miss singers, Like bells miss ringers, Like cakes miss bakers, Like lakes miss boats, Like bad swimmers miss floats, Like politicians miss votes, Like doting parents miss school plays, Like nymphomaniacs miss lays, Like necrophiliacs miss graves, Like hypochondriacs miss prescriptions, Like ****** misses addictions, Like carpets miss friction, Like Billy Bunter misses midnight feasts, Like the grim reaper misses grief, Like Henry misses the goodfellas, Like sand sculptures miss umbrellas, Like Rubix cube devotees miss puzzles, Like rabid dogs miss muzzles, Like Van Gough missed his brushes, Like speed freaks miss rushes, Like pens miss paper, Like the Mona Lisa missed Pater, Like the canvas misses the creator, Like how the thirsty miss water, Like the hungry miss food, Like ***** miss the lewd, Like the mind misses mood, Like the tides miss the moon, Like the sane miss the loons, Like the dark misses the light, Like the brave miss the fright, Like the kite misses the wind. Like a phone misses a ring Like every misses thing.

35