"hysteria" poems
Life is like a series of storm clouds waiting to pass.
You can predict where they're coming from and when they'll be here.
But when the time comes it is quite a surprise because your storm cloud still has yet to arise.
You may not be aware of what the cause was, but when the lightning hits you are immediately in a state of hysteria.
The storm is continuous and once you're in the eye, you think the pain of whatever it was has dissipated into the dark sky.
Little did you know that that was just the beginning of a series of storm clouds that are still winning.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
Velvet lovers swim into a purple nest
Meeting at a hysteria they cant resist
A thousand molecules crowding at their skin
Famished of nutrition
But sustained by birth
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
I locked eyes with the street last night
and it dared me to turn away
turn from the injustice
inequalities
ignorance
move on to some romantic scene
that lives outside the grey
I wrapped its cold wet skin
around my neck and began to shiver
as the rocks began to scrape
scratch
slither in my veins
as one hundred unknown faces
paddled their way down river
I tasted grief and empathy
and the mix was all too vile
more bitter than any sympathy
symbiotic
synergy
gears were painting machinery
cranking out disquiet and bile
It was then I found its corner
and the music it seemed to breathe
and despite my hesitation
hysteria
hellish intent on fiction
The asphalt smile began to grow
and pave my mind at ease
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
He slowly assembles his rifle on the barren rooftop as the
wind blows through his light blond hair.
His long overcoat ***** and wraps around his thin long
legs.
He places his elbows upon the short wall in front of him,
firmly kneeling on both knees.
Glancing into the rifle's sight, he focuses sharply through
its cross hairs; he sees hundreds passing through the sight,
men, women, children, and as he sees it, a maze
of mass hysteria.
He thinks of his current desperate situation and with each
passing thought, his heart pumps more hateful
adrenaline through his expanding veins.
What am I?....He wonders.
"I am the orphan child too ugly to adopt!
I am the spit in the street you step in and curse!
I am the cockroach so many crush beneath their feet!
I wish to love and beloved, for I am ever so lonely,
so empty.
I wish to give my whole self to someone to make them
eternally happy!
To sacrifice all I possess, including my life, for the one
I love,
but I am thoughtlessly branded a stalker!
I am the void in all broken hearts.
As a child, I only wished to be loved and appreciated,
but I was raised the invisible child.
There's a painful sore in my throbbing brain, the lethal
virus of society'd disdain.
I'm insane!....I'm insane!...Give me peace, God if you exist
Give me peace!
He glances once again through the sight's cross hairs,
catching sight of a young boy standing alone, mouth wide open
with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He pauses.....envisioning himself, his blue eyes cloud
with tears.
He pulls back back his loaded rifle placing it against the
short wall,
realizing at the moment this wasn't the way to end his
unbearable pain.
Reaching into his deep overcoat's pocket, his long fingers
catch grasp of the cool surface of a 9 mm.
Pulling it slowly from his pocket, he raises it to his temple,
slipping his finger upon its tight trigger he whispers once
again,
"God....if you exist,
Give me peace."
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
High above dear Maple Street
There looms a cold iron curtain of fear
That dares to drop and let all the monsters
Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos
As in Europe despots gift a new World War
Trembling parlors hug the radio
Hallows Eve: the radio
Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street
The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war
And that heavy iron curtain of fear
Eclipses the sun and invites chaos
In vacant hearts of men into monsters
Halloween Night: the monsters
Now dance to the tune of the radio
Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos
Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street
Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear
Riding hysteria, imminent war
O great catalyst of war
Twisting the minds of men into monsters
Diving your hands in that great pit of fear
Now throbbing with screams from the radio
No fences nor faces can save Maple Street
Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos
And we call it Chaos
This boiling of minds all stewing with war
Once masked with humanity on this street
Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters
Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio
Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear
And when that curtain of fear
Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos
And the broadcast fades on the radio
And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war
What will we make of all of these monsters
Scattered about in a daze through the street
Where there are minds of fear and war,
Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters;
Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
Children are walking in flour again,
though these grains are the symptoms
and the symptom is pain.
Resting upon donated metal table,
this child is lifeless with only a label
around his ankle for identification.
Part time doctors and full time others
walk and pace and cry and panic around the mother,
lifeless, with a document for identification.
This is malaria.
This is infant death.
This is an epidemic of hysteria.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
like many of you
I enjoy being a poet
of keen irrelevance
a literary luminaire
of solitude
a lost writing ghost
a megalomaniac haunting himself
a waiting oracle
waiting
for the occult muse door mouse to tap dance
whispering night babble
or having a cooked chicken fly into my mouth
while i take searing snapshots
of erratic images
puzzling them into words
from boundless burdens
of heaping intestinal bluesy aftermaths exodus of conscience
bruising my self like a ********* in heat
on out of control run-on rants
and blood razor drenched mysticism
while real men drive earth movers
drink bruskies
and kick ***
hustling time share Chinese handcuff contracts
and up sell social justice platitudes
fit for pie in the sky levitating hysteria
lives shatter like red ice
in endless cacophonies of skull clobbering effacement
I'm writing this poem to be ignored
and no one lets me down
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
Watching night step-sitters staring at each passerby
abiding time as if counting sheep stepping with the city's cadence
Hearing sirens alarming in their BEWARE BLARING;
persistent fearfulness for evil and citizens securities
Staring-walking-bodies searching a barren land prostrating
before the great needle
Patched streets and decaying sidewalks by flooding night lights lay surreal
DECAYING fingers of poverty playing its fingers into every crack, crevice; into every pore, into every cell member
into one's whole being
Sounding the hip-hop generation street corners of hustlers
jiving away the night
The hustled and hustlers' overwhelming struggling for power; being surrounded by red brick and stone; being incased in poverty
Pounding city hysteria;
at times laying silent in sleepless depth
by the waning gradualness;
anytime readying itself to ERUPT
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
The rabbit-tap tattoo beatings of our hearts,
They leave imprints on our chests
Our necks
The hollows of our hips.
The soprano pull off my breathing
And the forever-hold of your fingers,
It marks me,
A you-shaped tattoo in my heart.
Fingerprint bruises on my skin,
Scratches at the small of your back,
They are more permanent than ink,
More lasting than ink and more precious.
Alcohol hazes,
Smoke screens in our kisses,
Tumbled words and slurred laughter,
Our rabbit-tap tattoo hearts and our tangled-up legs,
The forever mark of our hushed hysteria,
It is more permanent than ink,
Cheap and wild and real.
A tattoo,
A stain of you and me
clinging to my skin
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Albert Camus
Kept an Emu
Tied to a potted,
Portable wisteria
To keep him company
Whilst he kept goal
For the University of Algeria.
As Albert was fishing
The ball out
From the back of the net
The Emu mused
On the conversations they'd had
About The Oprah Winfrey Show,
The significance of suffragettes,
Adam Smith's Wealth Of Nations
And the ****** orientation
Of Sir Galahad.
Whilst discussing the plots of
The Plague and The Outsider
Warm feelings would suddenly
Well up inside her.
Why should such intellect
Elicit so much love
And even more pain?
My thoughts for this man
Aren't getting any vaguer.
Then Utrecht University
Scored again.
There are no happy endings
With Albert Camus -
Decades later he dies
In his publisher's Facel Vega.
When she heard of Albert's demise
Her initial reaction
Was hysteria
And it comes as no surprise
That a few weeks later
She died of diphtheria
Which is so much easier to do
When you're an existential emu.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved
in her laughter and being part of it, until her
teeth were only accidental stars with a talent
for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps,
inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally
in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter
with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a
pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
green iron table, saying: ‘If the lady and
gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea
in the garden…’ I decided that if the shaking
of her ******* could be stopped, some of the
fragments of the afternoon might be collected,
and I concentrated my attention with careful
subtlety to this end.
5.2k
What if they had a War and nobody came !
my sentiment all along
Actions so transparent and telegraphed a mile long
absurd anchoring, even more absurd triggering
so absurd as to be meaningless
the hotchpotch logic of simpletons on acid
The banal manifestations of the anodyne retards with advanced hysteria
Think unruly kids on Colombian marching powder
think advanced psychosis with total stage ten delusions
Watch mass hysteria contagion
Logic was never there, rationality bolted beating Usain Bolt
Inveterate liars and fantasists now control maddened throngs
Oh dear! they decided I am madly in love with acquaintance
neither I or poor acquaintance know this
But let not the truth get in the way of a soap opera by the insanes
After All meaningless triggers and Delusionary prompts
keep the sheeples busy in People's Power utopia
They are all having a war, nobody has told me about it
I don't understand their language yet they are very eloquent
Deep in their imagined Neuro-linguistic Programming or mental pygmies playing Pavlov Dog theory of the semi-illiterates
I just realized why cancer is prevalent amongst them
They carry so much poison and emotional ******* in their beings
It pollutes and eat away at them internally, they get cancer!
Never have been interested in little minds and liars and thieves
Have little time for dumb people, the toxics and the sheeples
What makes cretins think I take anything of theirs to mind
what can I learn or gain from contemptibles
I don't feel inferior so why would I want to learn
how to slander and defame others to bring them down
'Slander is the GREAT LEVELLER voiced one of them
poor inadequate soul, poor pathetic degenerate
I look twenty years younger than my years, no wrinkles
Just slightly greying, mind as sharp as razor
Because I don't carry acidic ******* hate or foul nonsense
in my head,
Because my mind is full of worthy knowledge
because I am not an ignoramus with attitude
because I am not a shameless coward or an empty headed nonentity
Because I am not amongst the madding crowd
I am not an insignificant pointless HATER with cancer in waiting!
I am NOT a SHAMELESS RACIST white THIEF discrediting the
Victim I STOLE from
OR
an OBNOXIOUS gang of SOCIALIST crazed subhumans cancerized
by jealousy and envy
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Just because it's suggested doesn't make it right.
In the hands of teachers, other staff.
What other purpose could this directly serve.
To defend our institutions.
To further endanger those around.
The knowledge instilled from book to teacher a different practice.
Now holstered, hidden in the drawer of a desk.
What goes through the mind of the victim that's been bullied.
What training can be set in place to stop the next bulletin.
Shooting across the screen.
The kid in 10th grade that carries the weight of the world.
Sitting all day staring out the window.
Mother in hospice.
A fragile thought swallowed by deafening silence.
It no longer becomes a listening session of encouragement.
The after school sessions of comfort sped up.
Another bulletin of hysteria fired across the screen.
Teacher student affair.
15 year old student found with 42 year old man.
When in reality she was seeking help due to a troubled home.
Afraid to sleep knowing the door would creep open.
Leaving her terrified to close her eyes. The relationship between step daughter and father without boundary.
Where's the specialty training for those who care.
The proper resources that extend beyond that of a pamphlet.
The dark skin kids that's made fun of because they look different.
Stereotyped as aggressive.
The dope boys, the baby mamas.
The light skin girl that's made to feel inferior because she turns red with every hit.
Her hair is longer than theirs so she wants to cut it.
Aggressively forgetting all the beauty she possesses.
The active shooter managing to make it pass the metal detectors.
Rallying the attention he didn't get at home.
The debate carries on across every wall except the right ones
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
anorexia you inside of me
hysteria is all you'll ever be.
you're a struggle
and you caused me a lot of trouble
yes you made me skinny
all with that stupid theory
but i'm gonna win in the end
even though you are my only friend
i will not die today
just have to get back what i threw away
i called you my master for way too long
but i just realized where i belong
i have my friends here
and they take away my fear
i might have been close to death
but only beacuse of your stupid threat
"you're gonna get fat"
and then we had the calorie chat
but i'm forcing you to leave
so i can freedom achieve
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Heart racing and it begins
Butterflies start to dance
Rushing flow of ecstasy
giddiness embracing
Flying higher and higher
Freedom and happiness
awareness with every touch
bliss
Heart compressing
Stampede of hysteria
Slow crawl into desolation
Loosing grip
Falling faster and faster
servitude and disorientation
Restlessness with every thought
desperation
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:08 AM UTC
The glitter of strobe
gratuitous gaiety
platitudes
and sanctimonious guile
******* cocktails
on the menu
an ingratiating mask
a gratified grin
Contorted vocal chords
lots of laughter
no time for irony
look at me.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Eyes are open, am I blind
do my arms not work, far they cannot extend
thump, thump
what am I touching, in what am I encased
what an odd sound, like rainfall but more menacing
what is that sound
I hear it above
starting to feel afraid, a dream this must be
air is growing thin, claustrophobia sets in
my nails begin to claw at whatever this force field may be
trapping me in my worst nightmare
bloodied, sore to no avail the trap holds well
hysteria next, screams, wails, laments
please God let me wake up
hours later, numb, deadened my empty eyes stare at the dark tomb
acceptance sets in with the realization
I've been buried alive
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
Somehow it wasn’t right to cry
for someone who
no one knew—for years
though everyone knew about Lil
She was the crazy burden
of an orphaned family
whose memories rearrange the winter shadows
“Are we dressed right?
Are our faces adequately sad?”
They loved the skinny, happy kid
Loved—the ones who loved her
knew her from “The Old Neighborhood”
Two sisters approach the body
echoed in black and navy
holding each other’s hand
They look down at her—
They look her over
They overlook—“The Old Neighborhood”
of the Lillian they had hoped for—
took care of as a child....
And in the din of last respects
a comment from an older gentleman—
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers”
So I was her niece
and not from “The Old Neighborhood”
I have memories of my own....
I was rich when Lil brought play money
from Misquamicut
She brought whelks and slipper shells too
My ear cupped close
I first heard the sea
Not as beautiful as I expected
nor as beautiful as I would know
She gave them with love—without telling
where and when that I would go....
Her hands were always cool and sweaty
Always trembling
Always a cigarette
and an argument in the background
From the height of three
and hugging knees
I see her face against the ceiling’s
white—with panic
Her eyes are never with me
I know someone is with her
“The Goldrick girls were all such lookers....”
Beleaguered beauty
Frail, with stiff grace
she glances sideways
Checking for my safety?
“Our names too close! Confused too often!”
I was to know her horror— as I know her sea
...Her laughter, too late for the conversation
a smoky hysteria
that will not share with her eyes
She stumbles backward through her childhood
as if she has mislaid something
She wants to go roller skating
with her sister, eight months pregnant
besieged by diapers
with stew on the back burner
...And Lil wants to go back...
to a time at the Rialto
to the organ’s boogie
to the edge—before
The Depression declared WAR—
on someone who
no one knew
for years!
And is it okay yet?
...to let her sea out of me!
It burns so!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
What if?
What if,
What if,
what if?
The questions that pester us
day in and day out.
The ones that leave us
scared and stressed.
What if I ***** things up with
you?
What if I leave you as damaged as myself?
What if I can't make you happy?
What if this is all a waste?
What if someday I hate all the little things I love about
you?
What if I make too many mistakes
or press to hard against your affection?
Or, possibly more terrifying,
what if we fall in love?
What if we make it another year and a half?
What if I don't want to follow your dreams?
Or even worse,
what if you would rather follow me?
I could never do that to you.
You have no choice,
you have to follow those dreams of yours.
They're bigger than either of us,
or whatever city we could choose to live in.
You are not allowed to sacrifice for me.
The future has nothing in store for us.
So is there a point to be happy now
but crippled by loss later?
We don't stand a chance against fate.
Fate is looking us in the eyes and laughing.
Oh the hysteria.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Today I went down to my Cafeteria,
As I approached I was filled with hysteria,
I saw a girl limping to the same place,
Looking at the floor as if it were a reflection of her face.
She was walking at a very slow rate,
I thought this would be a way to make a friend by fate,
I lunged for the handle to hold open the door.
I even looked over and smiled some more.
She looked at me and we met eyes,
I expected a smile in return, I saw nothing but demise.
As she walked away i started to wonder,
What happened to this girl, why she was so sundered?
I hate the people that hurt her so bad,
That when a stranger is nice, there is no reason to be glad.
I hope one day she can smile some more,
Rather than walking around staring at the floor.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
Look here. I've been admiring the spectacle
of Ng’s bare **** Yes,
this is simply because I have to say
Ng’s bare **** is magnificent.
It’s not a bouncing Botticelli but it’s
a slim, firm bottom, subtly rounded,
real split peach and cream stuff.
And Ng at the other end
is a real nice girl, too!
She's my friend, see?
But back to Ng’s bare **** Let's stay focused.
I contemplate this vision,
along with the meaning of life,
quite often in broad daylight
with a slash of sunlight across her little buns.
This is more profound than the Tait, the Louvre,
the Met, the Frick, the Neue, the Helly, the Hermitage or even
the Natty Portrait Gallery all bunged in together.
Ng's bare **** is also better, by far,
than anything you'll see at the Bolshoi or La Scala.
I’m amazed at how much I’m amazed by
this work of art. It’s awesome.
And I betcha the most famous galleries would
fall over themselves to display this finest little **** that is,
if the world wasn't so hung up with hypocrisy and hysteria,
yeah, it'd be heaps more famous than the Mona Lisa.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
In my absence
My mind has been doing back-flips,
back-spins and hand-springs.
They really should be called head-springs.'
Off a spring board I began vaulting.
Trying to spin, tumble, turn des pairs
of thoughts stuck in the landing area
Threw a little french in there for ya.
Grasping at hysteria asymmetrically with sanity
must be stronger than anxiety. Like a glass coat, it blankets me
however you can see to the core, translucent rings of a tree.
Walking the balance beam
between life and suicide sporadically.
Being pushed on both sides by a jet stream
Surviving is a pipe dream because we are all dying.
Once again I am on the floor. However,
I am implored to look forward by poetic neighbors.
All I gotta do is knock on their door and they'll gladly give me a cup of esprit de corps.
More french, Au revoir
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me ****** above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs
Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)
Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste
Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.
3.3k
your eyes don't glisten like they used to
just saying it's not something usual for you
*so I guess you're heavily imbued
with this crestfallen attitude?*
yea I know,
I've changed in the same way
my own little reverse-breakthrough
Risque foreplay with ultramarine Bombay
before stepping in to emcee the Devil's soiree
And no, you really don't --and honestly never did-- know me;
you only knew one of many façades I brazed
on my face
in the midst of a cliche
New Year's day typa haze
During the phase of
my infamously tempestuous craze
I was precipitously *(ignited
quite possibly by my own
flaring sparks)*
set ablaze with praise
but my mores seem to be misplaced
probably somewhere in the frenzy and hysteria
So I guess I'm left to embrace my untraced boundaries
*And get my viridian eyes back to glistening
on their own viridescent terms
Not codependent on the hollowed adulation
and sweet-talk from bamboccioni*
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
The color of passion, the color of pain
The color of delusion, the color of flames
I slip my swollen soles into your hallow hysteria
Cracked, fragile feet from the frost bite
of a West Virginia snow
Size six, ruby red stilettos
and I push
and I pull
and I scream
and I sigh
and I try and I try and I try
In my six, ruby red stilettos
Freezing poetic lullabies
Until I can find a place to call my own
Sparks of scarlet bloodlines
Dripping down my spine
Wrestling through rivers
between the spaces in my mind
My heart is much too loud for a place like this
My lips are much too quiet for a place like this
I dance with him in
The color of courage
The color of fame
The color of charisma
The color of strength
The color of my lipstick when its fading through my lies
Much too broken
Much too bold
Bursting into a violet plum
until I am in pieces—
until I decide to throw myself back together again
In my size six, ruby red stilettos
and it wasn't my intention to force them to fit
and I push
and I pull
and I scream
and I sigh
and I sell dignity of my poverty
to get them to come off of me
but once I started dancing
I fell in love with the sound
of my heels clicking
the surface of the floor
and I made myself a home
in my size six, ruby red stilettos.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC