"pathologically" poems
Maybe we’ve moved past
The jazz dancing nights
Baby brownie bites into freedom
Now
A pathology of pathologically pathetic patterns
Day in, day out
Wax on, wax off
One of these days:
I’ll learn the piano
Beethoven, bach, ben folds
One of these days
Handstands, happiness, hope
Will string through the summer loving
Hooligans
One of these days
We robo-people will wind down,
Slow,
Stop,
Need oil for our rusted bits
Head, shoulders, knees, and even toes
But, mr. tin man, what if Dorothy
Never comes along?
We won’t blink for centuries
And maybe the world will finally come alive
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 8:01 PM UTC
Romantically tragic,
I am your Opheliac,
So emotionally pelagic,
My obsession is magic,
For I'm beautifully a maniac.
Madness is a virtue,
So I constantly panic,
You know it's true,
This depression is manic,
But it's all for you.
In love, I'm insane,
It's unbearably nostalgic,
My eyes red from rain,
Pathologically neurologic.
It's a disease in my brain,
And you know what, I love it!
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC
Hey hey it's common as parlance
to the pathos of the rain
and hey it's often as sympathy
to the elation in this state
Hey it's disconnection
to the people in their place
and hey it's not often
that permanence relates
each bead is a lens
magnifies the sincere
I'm rainbows for water droplets
give hail to storms my dear
Oh oh it's gone as defiance
to the pathologically ingrained
and oh it's not rotten
to the habitually irate
oh oh It's introspection
to the narcissists plate
and oh it's boughten
with gentic smiles by trait
each born is a bed frame
ridgid and affixed
her bedsheets to boredom
in covered models of make
Hey hey it's common as parlance
to the pathos of the rain
and hey it's often as sympathy
to the elation in this state
Hey it's disconnection
to the people in their place
and hey it's not often
that permanence relates
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
the rhythm makes me feel low,
eyes wondering which way to go,
lifes a precious smoker to blow,
the questioning of you is two, or the lesson of two is you.
dont forget the second word before the last.
make every minute tick and past.
moth on a light bulb,
stone fit for rings,
rings fit for stones,
we probably pathologically on the same thing. thinking
is feeling
only for the in tell her gents.
but if you arent working for her then its intelligence.
if you bring assets to liable for rhythm that intelligence
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
Do we heal with time or does time fluctuate the essence of our healing - A window into a world explored opens and yet, before reaching our first step, well silence the anticipation of falling - Time - Was it too long or not enough - Missed opportunities are gathered - What might be open space to some is crowded by others. Forged from the beginning first breaths associated in rhythm - Pathologically divided in silence negotiations provided
-
Life's mystery
-
Time
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
Plucking petals she pathologically pulls
While walking where nighttime once had skies filled
And drowns deep her sorrow unto her mind fixed
And picks up a rabbit whose neck she does twist.
Drains his blood which drips down her throat
And feels free from her fix for fear and woe.
So plants her a seed and prays silent for growth
Til seasons pass by and from ground flower shows;
Where she plucks all the petals and kills once again
To add to her list all the sins she has sinned.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
My Mother once told me that the pain will burn your lies until all that you leave behind with every step you take
is the smoke of the cigarettes you once held dear but I was pathologically just imagining her saying things to me with her back turned and her eyes closed.
The soles of my shoes are as worn as my eyes when midday reaches its peak
and the last time she spoke to me it was only to tell me that she'd return the favour
by playing the games I never meant to put in place just to spite my severe apathy towards the ways of living in her world.
I'm still only a pebble on a stretch of sand I won't live long enough to see
and parallel lines that were perpendicular to the fragile vein of life were the only things I bothered to pay attention to
but she'll never know that.
I'm still the only ceramic mug on the shelf and eyes pass over me quicker than dust gathers on my shoulders.
I'll never be able to compare the flames in my lungs to the crackle of firewood of lost travellers
for the only blazes I start are the ones that dry my throat and leave my eyes bloodshot.
My Mother talks about love like it's the remedy to every illness but my Father's eyes gaze fleetingly at her soul
and she still claims that their love was the most powerful thing in the world.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
i've the mien of a human,
alien among his own.
gross animal urges, brackish greengold flits, uncrushable surge; then,
demispoonfuls of Other emerge, light like photons
barely reaching, then lapping,
at my fatigued bare feet, toes curling up
in the sand of someone else's time.
i don't let people in,
because i
myself am
outside of me,
full of blocked ways,
full of rationalizations.
i am all hallways
without any room.
--- it's ******* weird, i know that.
i am not
altogether
normal.
i am out
there, but
still here.
please please, understand
this. it's key.
like, the other day..
while taking out the trash (that i pathologically neglect to do),
as i approached the dumpster,
that old-as-the-hills
tall, ornately carved double door glinted
into my space
- yet again -
out of nowhere;
made of an ancienter wood hailing from
a lost time and a lost space,
whose two adjacent hatch windows were lithely guarded
by some bizarre crisscross adamantine sentient metal -
this precise door, which
i have never been able to open up, let alone fully approach -
laughed and widened its grasp:
and, with a confusing series of heavy deadbolts
receding from its nook with a resonant boom,
the left door,
ajar,
beckoned my
being,
as i
am,
and i crossed its threshold
into a velvety grooved room, remembered again
as a toward flesh warm and sliprune.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
I want you secret
I want you night-time
I want you in-between
I want you mine
I want you eyes wide
I want you six o'clock (and seven o'clock and eight o'clock)
I want you with the radio low
I want you in dusty sunlight
I want you with cracks on the ceiling
I want you Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays.
I want you leap frogged and running with feeling
I want you long and drawn out, and short and frenzied
I want you asleep and in transit
I want you awake and drunk and dancing
I want you whiskey and moët and brandy
I want you electronically
Pathologically
Dynamically
Chronically
Ironically
I want you silent
I want you wild eyed and raving
I want you hating and spitting
I want you lost and needing
I want you without regret
I want you argued and making up
I want you ***** dishes and rain against the windows
I want you July blue sky, November harvest moon
I want you 'I do'
I want you first kiss and last
I want you babies and children and promises
I want you future I want you past
I want you secret
I want you night-time
I want you in-between
I want you mine
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
Damaged goods, baggage lugging,
in desperate need of comfortable hugging,
every night, every time until she knows,
any way it goes, it will all be just right.
Socks mixed with pants and shirts everywhere,
she needed structure, someone to care
for her and her impeccable disorders,
with a mindset that borders
on pathologically obeying to any kind of order.
I tore myself away back then,
three years ago, when
all you had to do was say hello,
when all your wishes were granted,
movements were enchanted,
ideas implanted
in a dream, an idea,
never what it had to seem.
Gone you were so proud,
apart you were so happy,
when you chose, even more than when not,
it resided in knowing what you've got.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping ******* plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly ***** plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
Back then, I was once told that I was
"Pathologically Nice"
She said that, my past love
She said that despite how I look
(I was told that I look scary)
despite my "overwhelming height" she said
despite my "overwhelming size" she still said
and yet that was the same reason
why it became a past love
because I was that
"Pathologically Nice"
I promised her that I will do what I do
No drugs. No alcohol. No curse words.
Up to this day, I still couldn't do them
Can't do drugs. Can't drink. Can't curse.
She made me promise her
and yet she told me it was because of that
that she doesn't feel the same way
There were inevitable times though
that I question myself
Should I be flattered? Should I believe her?
That I was called "Pathologically Nice"?
up to this day, I'm still questioning it
because..
If I were that kind of nice
why do the people I love
get hurt because of me?
I'm sorry, but at this point in time
I cannot believe
that I am
"Pathologically Nice"
because the people I love
get hurt because of me
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
In stories
monsters are always
underneath our bed
in our closets
or behind the curtains
to our windows and showers.
Reaping shadowy complexions
fleshy exposed eyes
gleaming ill intent
for our fawns, the children.
Creatures that exist
beyond what we can comprehend
as they watch our sneakers
slip by the edge
where they lie in wait.
Be weary to those
who seek flesh by the pound
carnivorous beings
who slather the fresh
essence of youth
in-between their teeth.
They are not hiding
but living with you
as the anger and fear
that pathologically anchors
its self into your existence.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
#PaunSN
*A tangibility of thought
the cost of loss(ed)--
fought, then bought;
the p a s s i o n beyond
fashion.
A tap in to
the forever
everything said-- bread fed.
Crumbs, that come from
the drum.. the strum
of a million distant
spirits--
none to succumb
to the emptiness
the meaninglessness
of words from the numb--
the pathologically-saturated
mundane numb
Overcome, my love
overcome*
#
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 3:32 PM UTC
So you claim you're highly
"intelligent"
In which category would that be?
There's "cognitive" and "emotive" intelligents,
I'm sure your in the driver seat!
Or perhaps your
crystallise intel
is crystallised
Somewhere
Between heaven and hell
We can be
Influentials when fluency dwells
Surely
"Kinaesthetics" is poetical flow
This intelligence come and goes.
But obviously "linguistic"
is our intellectual clutch
Along with high "aesthetics"
But you may still be out to lunch!
Because
"Spiritual" intelligence
can leave us drunk!
"Interpersonally" where are you
That and "artistical" intelligence rules!
"Spatially" we navigate
this "mathematical" understanding
of our universe.
No one possess all
11 intelligents I have mention
So if you believe your above
You've pathologically decended!
Jan 1, 2021
Jan 1, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
(dashed off upon learning untimely demise regarding prosperous family, whose small plane crashed. about half dozen years ago, they lived ~ three doors down from us.)
No words can assuage the deep sorrow,
this once upon a time neighbor
(I lived at 1148 Greentree Lane) experiences
disbelief, numbness, shock...
attendant by an irreparable loss of beloved,
and vacillated how to communicate
heartfelt sympathy,
where words superfluous,
yet... if for that challenge alone,
an affinity with language
spurred impulse to focus upon
bountiness of joie de vivre
imbibed years gone by,
when every now and
again chance encounters
found yours truly (me)
in delightful company
regarding persons whose presence
imbued benevolence, kindness, warmth...
facilitating emotional philanthropy
influenced long term positive memories
to one experienced being
outcast, ostracized, offensive...
courtesy unfortunate series
of circumstances beyond my control,
which voiced unwelcome tension
sabotaged reaching quality politeness
displeased at unfriendly reactions
reflexively, maliciously, impetuously...
did little or no justice
toward conflict resolution
which altercations nearly,
quickly did segway profoundly
into unpleasant standoffs,
yes bias, bigotry, bitterness
begat bisel meshuga
acutely aware I loathe
uncouth actions regarding myself
and strive to remain
affable, cordial, friendly...,
hence an object lesson,
(albeit ex post facto)
to abide by my inner integrity,
ethos, doga politesse...,
especially when pitted against
unsavory electric acid kool aid test
tis then urgently vital to remain
steadfast, and figuratively
turn the other cheek
particularly when populace
under severe duress
re: instigated by pathologically
belligerent, ill mannered, rude...
president whose sets abhorrent precedence,
whereby people of nation follow suit,
yet this concomformist only hopes
to affect positive within world at large.
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
I like being on time
but I am usually early
and have a boring wait
Being late isn't an option
I always end up early
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 6:32 AM UTC