"overstimulated" poems
I read the newspaper stained in black
I watch the television covered in blood
I listen to the corrupted comebacks
Coming from the people I used to love
The world holds so much negativity
As I try to escape my own
I cower from the harsh world outside
Counting my reasons to be alone
I was raised to fear the world
Just follow what others say
Continue being the passive wallflower
As I count my reasons to stay
Out there is a world where I fall and fail
While my inner world consumes me
Overstimulated and stressed in all kinds
Desperately searching for peace
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
Cursed with consciousness
Controlled by the cosmic
**** of knowledge
Dripping wet
Drowned out
Overstimulated senses
Turned on
by some higher power
Feeling up
from chakra to chakra
Angels moan in harmony
humming divine madness
through the electric bodies
A touch of fire
forces art from fingertips
forging
copies
of copies
of copies
Created in the image
of constant grace
Burning the original
without a trace
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
my magnificent mind
has always been a gift
i am in a mystic world
filled with
lively green plants
coated with flower petals
it rained today
mother nature was sad
her and i always feel the same
a twisted funnel in our thick vines
of hair
heartache
because our earth was neglected
the wicked oder from the ocean stamps
our noses with the ink of the
red tide
an ocean of fear
the wave caps curl and burry the dead
pure envy
death is not a place
death is other people
a shoreline of psychedelic tragedy
sand castle graves
lathered in sea salt lotion
overstimulated side effects
my mother gave me the buried treasure
a chest filled with another dimension
built by her daughter
secret garden goddess
of dreams and spirituality
she gave me the key to her soul
threw the honor of mother natures
name and plant aroma
a throne of
leafs and seashell gems
skin of the earth
healing hands of garden therapy
i am my mothers daughter
i will kiss her with
cactus goo lips
as she fills my soul
with mother natures
aura
for
amara
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 7:40 PM UTC
It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.
I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
Jarring,
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.
When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.
Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.
Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.
It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC
my skin tingles, overstimulated by the harmless cotton sheets
my stomach leaps, awakened to the enfolding silk of your skin
we flit in and out of consciousness
like drunken butterflies
my head pounds
I realize
the lamplight
the golden haze of "last night"
swirls of a memory
of ecstasy and an oil black record turning
and stopping
and my hand
reaching to flip it over
only to halt, relax, and slip down the nightstand
I strain my eyelids
remembering the forsaken B-side
every muscle aches
every inch of my flesh is spread with warmth
I reach for you
like I reached for the satin vinyl
but like last night
my hand slips into air
the potency of the illusion, the sensory explosion, the ache of losing
cling to my cold sweat in a bittersweet perfume
in the waking hour
so love,
you left me hanging after all
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
If you write,
You will realize monstrous things about
Yourself and instead of disappearing they
Will become more eloquent and delicately
Marble carved with years
If you write,
You will hear voices, so many voices
Hypothetical and begging with pain in their
Breath to be made real and feel and **** and die
Only you will see their funeral, know their laugh
If you write,
You will cry oil spills, ***** fruit salad
**** rainbows and beg for grey, murky, bland
The depths pressure crushing; gasping through the highs
The concept mood stretched, you are alive, alive, alive
If you write,
Your shutter flashes double photoed through the day
Will capture the minutia, have your living stuck in past
Endless film rolls overstimulated, document and shelve
Closing eyes, retroactive architect works back
You should write because
To create is to love is to master the manifest
Ink your livelihood eternal, ivory-flesh crumbles and decays
There are those that love the idea of you
You left footprints in the sand
Because
When the silver screaming godgasm hits
You serendipitously and a moment
Feels worth writing down
Things can be right for a while
You will fall in love
Everywhere you go and
Nothing will seem real
You will taste redemption in the
Crunch of an apple or smell wisdom
At the zoo
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Constellations
Traced for hours
In the dark of night.
Stars and planets
In a universe known
Only to my sight.
Fingers drenched in stardust
From a world that
Knows only my touch.
Senses overstimulated
By a melodic nebula
That draws in my love.
And
I could stare daily
Into the light of
That hidden milky way.
Stare evermore
Into the wonders
Of that universe
That you embody
Filled to infinity
With those precious
And forever blooming
Constellations.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 2:10 PM UTC
I awaited naked on the bed
Waiting for the fireworks whilst
Fragrant jasmine clung to the air
My heartbeat hastened
Waiting for you to come
Chastened by my wanton ness
All the while awaiting you
Waiting to be cradled.
Elated by the night's promise
I sparkle in anticipation
Overstimulated I fantasise
Fireworks bang, clash and crash outside
Untranslated lust leave me and
The fireworks illustrated.
You, are finally here
My need to be consummated takes hold
You dominate my fire worked state of mind and nakedness
I shake and convulse like a sated rocket
Assassinated on the bed, we culminate
Wasted, elated
Blazoned lovers out animate
The fireworks.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
I sense loss and yearning all around
I used to chalk it up as a personal hurdle to jump
or just the feeling of aging while the youth still goes on
Yet I think I this malaise is widespread
Impacting all of us in our glitching global trade
I used to think the issue was there’s just too much now
Too much to watch, listen, and taste
You don’t need the hunt anymore
Don’t need to wait or pay some exorbitant price
I used to feel overstimulated by the streams
and just could not decide
I still feel, it’s not that we want to do the thing,
but we yearn to want to want to do the thing
again
Is that all that’s changed?
Those who are not ready to be creators
will certainly not be ready to be curators
Freed ourselves from DJs and TV programming
but what control have we flailed ourselves into?
Wasting hours a day watching 30 second videos
whose categories are heavily curated
impersonally, just for you
Remember when user preferences worked
and in searches they wouldn’t hide the whole list
of all that was relevant and new?
Jan 29, 2024
Jan 29, 2024 at 5:21 PM UTC
It's too loud
Too bright
Too fast
Too many people
Too much choice
Too much noise
Too many things to go wrong
Too many problems that can't be solved
Too many things to do
Not enough time
Not enough space
Not fast enough to compensate
Can't write it as quick as I think
Can't slow my thought down
Can't explain the inside of my brain
Can't explain
Can't explain
Can't explain
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 5:21 PM UTC
My voice shrank and my entire body sclerosed to stone
when you lifted a hand because I was never sure
if this time would be the time
you took it too far.
The air left my alveoli, travelled through my bronchioles, trachea,
and out through my clenched teeth as you walked out the door,
safe to escape from my lungs because fear
had paralyzed my diaphragm and
overstimulated my amygdala.
It was always a vicious cycle:
My limbic system remembered the monster that escaped your ribcage
when the rage inside that was instilled in you to win wars
that was never fully extinguished came through
yet the same system processed the love I felt
when you played peek-a-boo with my niece on the grass;
even my brain wasn’t sure what we wanted.
Four weeks had passed since:
I said goodbye to our cat because he was yours now,
I took the trinkets I had scattered to make it our home
rather than your place where I stayed,
I erased sloppy alcohol-kissed love notes from the whiteboard
where I wrote the therapy reminders you ignored.
My mailbox filled with emails riddled with depression and
post-traumatic stress and worry manifested as a knot in my throat
that made it impossible to breathe so I searched for any spare key
and drove the twenty-seven miles to ensure your safety.
I grasped the doorknob hard enough to trigger Pacinian corpuscles
throughout my skin, terrified of what was just beyond the threshold.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
Ever have a browser open
With many different tabs?
Its a slippery slope
From one tab needed,
To about 20 for no reason
Some only open for a second
Taking up more bandwidth than the
Christmas season
It's like when it slows down, your computer
Is committing the high act of treason
Bleeding onto the overstimulated neurons
That occupy your mind with things so frivolous
And then you see..
The holes in your thoughts and logic creeping and creaking, closer to falling apart
Like listening to someone with a perpetually broken heart
Speak about love purer than the whitest dove
And how they'll never fall apart...
That's what my brain is like
Ive long since given up the fight...
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Sometimes I scratch my skin so loose
about whether we would find where happy is hiding
if we thought much less
about these twisting logics,
quieted our overstimulated ambiance
by quieting our own processing
and essentially
not caring so much.
I know I would, would find it somewhere,
but it's funny how that doesn't make me wish
I thought less in time,
I wonder what is brewing in me
that so craves a stormy conscious
rather than what we all cry those late nights about,
because my theory of life
is that the purpose of life
is to find it,
yet part of me seems to care more about the theory
than the truth and action of itself.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
I am tired and confused
Insecure and self-abused.
I am awkward. I am shy.
I am goofy, I am dry.
I am grateful, overjoyed.
I am selfish and annoyed.
I am clumsy. I am lazy.
I am laid back. I am crazy.
I am loyal. I’m betrayed.
Sensitive and so afraid.
I’m uncomfortable and lonely.
I am real. I am phony.
I am overstimulated.
I am loving. I am hated.
I am overwhelmed and stressed.
I’m anxious and depressed.
I am ugly. I am sad.
I am innocent. I’m bad.
I am cautious, disappointed.
I’m standoffish and disjointed.
I am curious and caring.
I am strange and overbearing.
I’m mysterious and pained.
A free spirit and contained.
I am sick and I’m distracted.
****** and unattractive.
I am angry I am friendly.
I am boisterous and deadly.
I am laughing. I am crying.
I am funny. I am dying.
I am trapped and I am free.
I’m ****** up, but I am me.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 5:21 PM UTC
vision blurs, head spins
the lenses in my eyes **** and whir
distracting me from my thought
and capturing me in it at the same time
this is the first time in so long
that i have torn open this wound
and salt seems to have been packed in it ever since...
since we still spoke
i hurt...i have to steady my self to keep from shaking
i havent had a panic attack in months but
if im not careful
i will...
lose it
i was happy thirty seconds ago
but then i
stepped into the wrong place in my brain
and stains of trauma soaked into my spinal cord
and ran down ...getting caught in my lungs
my lungs are already heaving shallow breaths
from being filled with sixth sick day phlegm
..but this...
this is not because i enhaled lye
or took a quick dust bath in it from carelessness
oh but it feels real similar
i dont want to relive anything
i dont need you
but because i still care about you
and i cannot pretend that i dont
and i cannot hide this from myself any better than by shoving it to the back of my mind from whence it occasionally
hop skips onto my
frontal lobe or
my poor misled and overstimulated
amygdala
and plays with all
the deep and primal waves of tangible
tryst-torn
in my soul
kind of ...
what is this ?
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
I am slowly disintegrating out of the various lives I have been nesting in. I love the comfort of my lifestyles I build inside others until they become horrid and decrepit from abusing "the playground". I am quickly losing grip of my identity. I am changing ever-so quickly. How am I supposed to know the real me? Or are there multiple versions? I think I need an intervention for the succubus I have resurrected inside of me. I like who I am, yeah. Sometimes. It's confusing when you play both roles: day and night. I flip like a switch, yet I always feel turned on. Oh, so clever. Patterns are hard to break, guess that is why they call them patterns. I am drained from being both dissociated and overstimulated by life simultaneously.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
I'm stimulated
Disoriented
Simultaneous
Coordinating
Confusing me
As words contend
A melody
Without an end
Aug 4, 2022
Aug 4, 2022 at 10:19 AM UTC
My fingers are really good at lying
I wave at people I don’t want to see
My fingers make art when I totally don’t know what I’m doing, and
What am I doing with 10 chicken bones on these limp noodle arms?
Klutz that I am,
I can button as many shirts and jackets over this heartbeat sound booth, but it won’t matter
My fingers will struggle with the the buttons in their awkward glory
Half my button up shirts have buttons in my left hand, for someone else to fasten
Leftover from some medieval fever dream where maids dressed their mistresses, facing buttons and more buttons on their right side
My favorite jacket’s a worn denim cocoon. The buttons are on the right. They are meant for the glorified capable, the mask-less masculine, and history may tell me they are not meant for these skinny digit fingers in their awkward glory
They’re not meant for these limp arms.
Anyway, I’m trying to be ambidextrous with buttons.
I’m sort of ambidextrous already.
I’m ambidextrous like a strong willed crybaby
I’m ambidextrous like an overstimulated introvert listening to post rock and folk metal.
I’m ambidextrous like I’m holding the scientific method in my skinny digit fingers and then going home and painting an abstract picture about it.
I’m ambidextrous like how I hate being laughed at but I don’t want to be taken too seriously.
I’m ambidextrous, like In class, half my notes stream out of my right side brain, all doodles and song lyrics and wanderings, half my right brain, straight lines descending into messy pen scribbles.
My left hand is not good at keeping up. I don’t write well, but I still consider myself ambidextrous. I’ll get there
I’ll be doing buttons with my left, drawing with the side my heart is on
I’ll be crying to punk, I’ll be head banging to classical, I’ll be signing “I love you” with my weak hand,
I’ll be trying to get the knots out of both shoulders and both ventricles,
My heart is too in reach, it must be these bony little fingers.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 11:54 AM UTC
Dancing, shifting, laughing through an empty light. Movement magnifies my cross of flight. Here we go again into the midnight.
Paralyzed by fear knowing something is wrong. I try to catch myself but my brain has moved on.
I am stuck inside this body with no hard drive. I don't know which circuits are still left on.
I am going through a tunnel or my body starts to float above. It's best to go to night with the lights turn off. Not flicking on and off like a strobe light show.
For I know here we go again and I m paralyze with fear. Can't talk, can't move, or move too much, or stare. Muscle movements, muscle twitches. Switches being overstimulated.
I am locked inside this body with no escape in sight. Please help me Lord! For the snake is by and he is crawling in my head.
I feel like screaming out let this madness end.
But my voice is gone and he taking me for dead.
I have to breath.......I have to breath that takes all of my focus. I don't like people near by I like to be left alone for I have no control and it's a scary sight.
What you see from the outside is magnified a thousand times for me. For I felt myself falling in a blink of an eye.
It doesn't really matter it's not like you can save me. I cannot even save myself.
See, a gust of wind blew by me, and took me from myself.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
I have been misplaced. I wander through a wilderness of population and insanity. To be lost in the woods is a blessing; a thrilling adventure full of serenity and life. But to find oneself entangled in this city? I cannot stand it. Traffic rages around me: an ever present roar of engines and anger. The harsh, whining lights glare off dusty blacktop and blot out the stars that once calmed my soul. Glazed eyes are made aware of my presence, yet do not recognize the human being behind my body. I am simply a face. An object. Something to be honked at, passed over, jostled out of the way. Stone faces and cinder block hearts are hidden behind streetlight stares shut up in mansions of separation. Fear, depression, anxiety and violence run rampant on the streets as each individual loses all hope of community in the rage of the crowd. We are lost. Fallen to the dark madness that screams for our attention and consumes our minds. Media is hurled at these overstimulated children till they crack under the weight of it all. And I stand here, digging my toes into the only scraggly patch of earth to be found, watching the bricks crumble around me. Each one is a face. A soul. A story. They have succumb to the city and fallen in the ash heap. The child within has been starved to death; and a stone faced stranger is all that remains.
I do not belong here! Can you not see? I am a child of wind and woodlands: an imp who dwells in trees and caverns and mountain tops. I run with the rivers and laugh in the rain. With calloused feet and muddy toes; bruised knees and a thousand tiny scars carrying stories. My hair is tangled in leaves and twigs, and my sun kissed nose lies between ruddy, wind burned cheeks. I have a tribe. My very own clan of fellow adventurers. Shall I forsake our union and abandon my family for this beauty depraved land? Our hearts have been melded together, and are now being ripped apart by brute force. I cannot bear it. I am not strong enough to hold all the desperate fragments together. Please, I beg of you. Let me go home.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
I can feel my heart rate slowing
my thoughts caught between going a million miles a minute and lounging in the tempered water of those smarter than me
I am simultaneously comforted and overstimulated by this modern artist who attempts to explain himself in a media foreign to him: words
His reality exists in color fields and weathered linen
In re-stretched canvas and the gentle pull of paint layering itself before him in a matter so beautiful that he's afraid to **** it-ignoring the fact that he's bringing it into existence
To see his work and grasp a whisp of what it is he is trying to convey
This is my drug of choice
To be drunk on the sobering reality that we equally overthink the merging of memories and hapinstances and movement; light and shadow, tints tones and hues, a balance between respect for what the art is trying to do and trying all the while to control it in a manner that it may capitalize on its investment in itself-on our investment
of time, of thought, of failures its taken to get here, of learning
Why would I go searching for something to stimulate my mind when it's nearly 3AM and I can't get it to stop? Nor do I desire to make it stop
May I be strung out on this gift all the days of my life
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC