"masochistic" poems
I feel like such an idiot because,
My thoughts are masochistic.
I don't know if I should feel-
Embarrassed or desolate.
Maybe scummy is a better word.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
The essence of your being is here to stay
as it infuses with my skin and heart and eyes and touch
my skin has been tattooed through your caress
and my heart has been mended by the way your eyes peer into my soul you fill me with love and make me whole
in retrospect i truly thought i knew what love was
but this was all a lie until i had met you
masochistic obsession is all i was familiar with
blinking the past away
i am aware of you and our future and our present
and how i will never let that get away
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
The way he looks at her
and she looks at him
makes love look so
effortless.
He doesn’t even notice
how he is leaning in –
towards her. And how her arm is
intertwined
around his so tightly;
with such a devoted glint of comfort
and familiarity.
I hope you're on the same train.
Making the aftermath
of falling easy, the complexity simply
luminescent.
Almost allowing me to feel light.
My heart had its fair share of
lightness, brightness – heavy now but
the smiles, the laughter;
It makes me feel as if
perhaps
that is what I yearn for in The End.
But will I ever find happiness if I'm overflowing with joy?
Because the
Melancholy
of a platform sliding out-of-mind,
with You standing there debating the
tangles in your shoelaces
warms up my equally tangled,
Masochistic
heart. Because that is not granted for me (us).
Not the handholding
nor the scent of your hair
when it’s 5 a.m. and your arms
are knotted around my waist and we
waste the day, the days, days in my bed.
Oh, yes (please).
No. I can't get that.
I remind myself:
"I don't need that."
I step onto the platform.
I mind the gap.
I dare do much
But I cannot dare to
trip, stumble,
and fall.
For You. (I already have.)
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
And suddenly you see it
as you hit rock bottom,
as you break down
into the smallest, sharpest pieces,
and your existence screams
at an empty room
to be saved
to stay
to live.
No echoes in the dark.
You see the incredible life
that is waiting for you;
that was always waiting
for you
past the veil
of your despair
your vices
your masochistic
self centered
suicidal
disposition.
You choose to be greater
than your fear,
and freedom ensues.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 9:25 AM UTC
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
over-caffeinated like a maj-gician (the electricians of existence), Matilda sang her morning brew a lullaby as she convinced breakfast not to panic from the pain of the frying pan- "sit quietly, take the pain, feel the burn- SIZzle! soon you'll be a human being and begin your life as a synthetic deity free within the skin of metastasized consciousness."
soon the egg seized in pleasure; a masochistic joy overtook it as yoke splurged from within like ****** ***** during ******* when the gimp has forgotten the safety word, screaming
BANANA
NEW YORK
CODE ORANGE
! ! !
while the perpetrator continues to scream verses from the Bible and Leviticus 1:3; an audiotape of On Being and Nothingness sends chills down the dark-sides spine in a hyperreal realization of the role choice plays in evils mortality.
must we listen while we speak? does reciprocity die in egoic colonization of the African subcontinent of the mind? is this the beginning of an age of autism born within the confines of illuminated rectangles of permissible distance and social hell-frozen-over?
man, you weren't even paying attention.
**** you.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
I think I'm gonna leave your memory in paradise
No use trying to bring that hammock into this city life
There isn't a beach to wash our worries away
Even if I just want to see you again for one more day
Masochistic heart why won't you just relent
Quit putting yourself through all this torment
Remember the palm trees, the summer breeze,
The actions void of any regret, Be happy we even met
Along this road life seems to pass each of us by
But your memory will never be tarnished if kept in paradise
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
I like people who hurt me.
I promise I don't enjoy the pain they put me through
But in some masochistic way,
I like people that hurt me.
It's easier that way.
Loving someone who you know will put you through torment
whose true colors already show,
than to trust the innocent flower unaware of the snake that hides beneath it.
I can't be caught surprised,
can't say I didn't see it coming
So I love people who hurt me
Mar 8, 2023
Mar 8, 2023 at 9:06 AM UTC
I want you to destroy me
because I know you'd enjoy it.
Rip me to shreds because that's what
I'll be if it means you loving me back together again.
And again.
And again.
What we've got is so horrible,
so painful, so honest, such a raw,
destructive, quality to what we call
"us" that it would almost be masochistic to go back.
Our brand of senselessness,
so alluring, and irresistibly passionate.
I cannot fathom the blandness of sanity.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
people tell me that i gain from pain
some kind of desire from torture
whether from bite marks
which make me bleed
or from a lover
that dominates
when in bed
part of me can't function
without some kind of release
that only pain seems to fulfill
i guess i have a masochistic personality
a need to feel what i can't usually
i struggled with self inflicted hurt too
when nothing else was available to me
created marks and scars to fill my heart
with increased satisfaction
i am the canvas
which is my art
my body tells
a thousand
little tales
of a girl
lost in
confusion
makes me feel so alive
the memories carved
and painted on
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
11.8.11
Death
is routine.
It is
expected.
Yet,
why are we surprised
when it happens to someone
we know?
Someone we love?
Someone we hate?
It is something
that happens to others.
Never us.
Sometimes it
consumes
what we want
and what we don’t.
But in the end,
all
that really matters,
is how we are remembered.
Will I make an impact?
Or will I drown in an ecclectic
mixture of
the various
drugs
I cannot seem to stay away from.
Will my family
have to live with the fact
that their only daughter
was so masochistic and
selfish
that she had no regard
for anyone but
herself?
No,
that can’t happen to me.
I must be referring to
someone
else.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
She was made of Pearls
*Her skin a delicate graft
of Sapphire
Soul sophisticated emeralds
A most valuable treasure
in the world
He lit a fire in her heart
Bright flames Burning bright
Enough to burn galaxies
And reduce mountains to ash
A passion so masochistic
A desire so strong
Obsessive
It consumed her
Yet*
She was made of Pearls
*And all he wanted was
To dig treasure
And so he did
Carved the delicate sapphires
from her skin
Where deep Scars remain
Like giant pebbles in a river
Stole the precious emeralds
from her soul
As he broke her heart with his
soft spoken lies
Yet*
She was made of Pearls
*And he got none
He was a red herring
Which soon drifted away
She thrifted in the Pain of love
A black fantasy, a black hole
That punched a void in her chest
And rendered her heart stale
Yet*
She was made of Pearls
*And the pearls fell in her tears
And weaved down all the oceans
Until she was no more
Now he looks for her pearls
In the oysters of the oceans
More valuable than*
Her
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
one who basks in the soft heat of grandiose moonliness
growing fatter on honeyed imaginations
their sicklysweetness soaking through the pores
of countless generations
their minds invade a collective consciousness
burning arcs of inspiration – torches of the collective vision
in drilling through mutual experience
great gaping black holes of creation
effigies of super-egos, lynched on altars of desire
neon flames and disco lights, emotions on a massive pyre
maiden voyagers on never-ending cruise
sinking in foreign oceans – their endurance dupes
minor gods of destiny and fate they await
dionysian ****** of wine and food for thought
and hearts that beat in unison
a schizoid muttering that enlarges and deafens
manic pleasure that spins and spins
in eternal circles of pleasure and pain, loss and gain
opioid mists that dream a dream of everlasting name
an addiction an obsession that sumbits
to some masochistic drive
to empathize.
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
My Heart is a drunken bipolar maniac with masochistic tendencies .
My Heart does not care about your feelings,
or the fretting of my apologetic Mind.
It is ravenous and deranged;
it will devour your succulent hopes and spit out the bones.
My Heart is one mean ************
it is a rabid wolverine with a hangover who ate razor-blades for breakfast,
and no, it does not want to go steady
or hold hands.
It wants to rip the soft white throat of your infatuation
and watch your eloquent offerings pool around your feet.
Unless, of course, you do not want me.
For met with that alluring indifference,
my unhinged pit-bull of a Heart will curl at your feet with doe-eyed meekness
and follow you from room to room in an agony of adoration
while Self-Respect and Dignity sulk in some dusty corner, thinking
"Please God, won't somebody muzzle that crazy *****
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 7:45 AM UTC
Love bug, lady crush, peeking through a midnight sky,
Deep Purple, Smoke on the Water, before a
glimmer in her eye,
90's girl, child stars of, The Disney Club,
Timberlake, Spears, Aguilera,
Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls dominating,
every air wave,
Victoria Beckham, her Parsons inspiration
fashion designer she'll fight her way,
to the top, so much power in her name,
yet even stripped bare, she'd be a star,
her talent to sketch, draw and drape,
falls on knees bent, if only we pray,
to even have an ounce from her display,
I know few like her, love unconditional,
we're the writers seeking solace,
an unforgiving pain,
life taking so much drain,
in the light of day this pain brings forth,
an edge to your art, a masochistic feel,
creating itself a soul untamed.
You write to remember, you sketch your dreams
hopelessness turns to desire,
the dark cloud of youth,
dissipates in the air,
knowing there is a way through,
treachery and despair.
My dear, you may some days,
feel in that gutter trying to,
catch a star,
but today you shine, as bright as
a diamond in this very same sky,
we see across continents,
each night that we pray.
Release the grip, lessen the pull,
fly and fly,
sore heights so high,
you ain't ever coming down.
© Sia Jane
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.
What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.
What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. ******** that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and feel disappointment when we don't achieve them.
What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.
What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.
What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.
What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
Let's face it
its more ******** warfare
culturally they are used to faking it
as thimbles and chipolatas in ninety seconds
do not reach first base much less seeing stars on cloud nine
hence they woke and fake the reality they chose be it feel or fright
in woke solidarity against frustrations they cloned their made-up foe
what better than sturdy shining Mandingo loaded and tied up
there for the having to your heart's content
presented to you the untamed beast
the wild moor tooled hot and ready
raw animalistic unfettered passion
rock hard we can name him Rocky
that goer that delivers every time
the one that is all your men aren't
and can never be cause he's gifted
sleek like dolphin in rhythmic glide
tasty like fresh clean mushroom
Arabian stallion if ever there's one
with absolute pedigree and class
take a break from the mediocre
from the wham bangs no can dos
from the floppy quick-draws saps
imagine the dark horse with the most
in smooth soft pink leathery velvet
tis your secret your guilty pleasure
tis the obsession you made into a war
the fantasy that plays in your heads
tis behind fervours that haunts you
that you so well disguise in hatred
telling metaphors slip out Freud
hold him down, grind him hard
wear him out, let's wreck him so
the sado masochistic 'punishing him'
give him a hard time, it all says a lot
you twist innocent sentences into
****** innuendos and innocent actions
are falsely given ****** meanings
as morn noon and night you toil
you troll and agitate for attention
yes you twist turn bite and nibble
in Freudian throes you talk love
you glaze unrequited love relentlessly
you close your eyes and dream sweet pain
yeah! get real, its no psyche warfare
its a flutters obsession, it's the classic '
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
its how you float your boats and and get yer thrills
you better face it you're all addicted
It's an ******** War-fare and you all know so.....
Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
We’re not as perfect as we like to say,
it's just another game that we play,
as you fall under my angelic spell.
the demon comes out.
and it wants to stay.
Cherubs cry,
as I tighten the ties,
and angels sob,
I put the gag back in your mouth.
blood red tears streaming down your back.
leather against skin,
cause you like it like that.
Your so cute when you scream,
its your masochistic dream.
biting deep in your skin.
face in the pillow,
suffocating again.
But you like that don’t you.
nails in your flesh,
color me aroused.
what’s the safe word you ask?
put that gag back in your mouth.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
They said high school was a home of learning
Oh I learned alright
They said it would construct my future
All it did was destroy me with the past
They said it would be safe
They have no defense over the demons
They said it would develop me as a person
But I remain who I was... only shattered
They said so many things, yet understood so little
This goes to the pillow-clutchers
to the broken who carry soaked and salty handkerchiefs
to the flesh that thrive for streaks of red dripping out
to the souls that are constantly bombarded by screeches of lies
Lies that overrun every beauty in and out
Lies that lead to masochistic actions
Waiting for the second heartbeat after every punch
Hoping this would free the monsters trapped within
This goes to the insecure
No, we are not emo
How can one contain our being in just three letters?
We are not superficial pain lovers
We are violated, dispirited, downhearted, beaten, unsettled, splintered, forgotten
But we will never be merely emo
A high school is not filled with students
It is filled with labels, rumors, divisions and fake personas
filled with eyes that look straight into your soul
filled with whispers that spread like a virus
Getting worse and worse after every ear it has jumped into
Savages looking for the flaw that can destroy you
Until you break and mindlessly follow their example
**High school is where you lose who you are
And be who everyone else wants you to be**
Everyone thought I was just being vain
Always staring at the mirror, trying to be cute
Never did it come into their minds that I was already believing the lies
ready to accept the rumors
using FINE as my own maxim
**** I'm Never Enough
But I waited
Waited for someone to drive out the beasts
to heal my scars
to fill my emptiness
Yet until now I remain drenched in loneliness and fear
High school is worse than hell
A quick and small crack in your soul hurts more
Than an eternal burn of your flesh
This is why we're ready to see the light come out of our eyes
But I'm holding on
For you need pain before you're declared strong
For you need darkness before you see the stars
For you need death before you reach heaven
For where there are angels,
there will always be demons
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
champagne tears fall in my glass for you,
I can hear myself running out of breath momentarily,
seeking peace in the false clarity that clouds my head,
the ghost of you; it remains in my broken mind.
poured myself a drink of dead love,
it took one shot of bad love to make me write,
put the romance to bed,
funeral for the lust,
not even death will make me stop,
I'm a mess for your heart.
drunken words, honest thoughts,
you're the subject no matter which.
masochistic, fragile-cryptic-
messages of deep thought,
love feels like a sinful need,
when you're so far from my heart.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
You are the pure soul of 5 year old girl
awed by the infinity of the starry sky.
You are the poetry that I humbly try to translate into words.
The scent of your neck intoxicating my senses,
The bad girl tempting one to sin the sweetest sin of all.
The magic number of our passion, old Chinese symbol that finally
reveals its truth.
Sweet flirt and ***** thoughts,
Eyes and eyelashes,
The fear of my fears.
A forest baby doe scared and confused
in the jungle noise of animal screams,
The idol in my dreams
My thoughts are like butterflies landing on your ******* your neck, your back, fluttering up and settling on the bottom of your tattoo, crawling below…
the texture of your soft skin and the hairs on your legs standing on their end.
You are the Flamenco music that I can’t listen to anymore, the guttural songs linking us to our primal ancestors, drums and clapping like the whole world applauding for you and me.
The love chart that tells it all.
The day you held my hand, in front of fifteen hundred people,
And the most beautiful scene,
alone in the cinema stall, touching an irresistible image imprinted in your mind.
Transparent lies that make me smile,
temptations away, the love that we seek where we can’t find it – sweet irony of life.
You are the punishment you beg for being a bad girl,
Your risks, masochistic game that makes you feel alive,
a life feeling like running fingers through hot coals.
Your unrestrained dialogue with your sub-conscious,
painful and rich,
open window into your soul for the magician to read it.
The power outside me and you that has connected loose threads of our hearts, the Yin and Yang clashing and meshing like two birds becoming one.
You, wild beast unafraid to devour yourself and your pray at the same time, fearless, insane, addictive.
The dream of holding hands.
February 2, 2013
Aug 26, 2023
Aug 26, 2023 at 11:15 AM UTC
I'm a throwback, baby
atavistic and masochistic
I'll pay for dinner and
I'll hold the door
you can complain and
vilify this good guy
but I can take it. Your
feminism does not and can not
impel or compel
me to forgo my manners because
you
can't
tell me how I should
expect to respect
you
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
Oh my little daydreamer,
Dreaming of better days
Dreaming of cotton candy clouds
and a sky you see your reflection in
Didn't anyone tell you silly little dreamer?
You can have anything you dream?
Open your mind, your soul, your heart
You are stronger than you believe
Daydreamer of mine,
Please don't grow up to be masochistic
Be a soldier that defeats any obstacle
Be a lover that loves in the loveliest of ways
My darling little dreamer
Be the dreamer of dreams for all of those who can't
For those of us who have fallen
For the ones who used to be daydreamers
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
House plants are hostages
we take while we rob
the bank of life for
all the experience notes we
can carry safely away.
We are using the funds
to build our vivarium
homes, microcosms of
the world beyond our walls
where we first glimpsed
the scheme.
The machinery of the world,
greased by blood and sweat,
remains beyond our control
while at large, yet
under our close supervision
we coax submission
out of our captives for
our own enjoyment:
selfish, ambivalently cruel
benefactors, dispensers of
our plants' waters of life.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC