"pediatrician" poems
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
Captured
Kidnapped or
Paid
For children
Camel races are held
Using this kids as Jockeys
Ages below Ten
Since they weight light
They are given a shed or a tent
In the desert
Offers just biscuits
Because they won't gain weight
What actually they want for racing
Which will speedup the camel
No bed no pillow
Sleeping on the sand
No positive dreams
They even can't cry
If they do they will be beaten
On the other side
Camels are having
Swimming pools
A pediatrician
Good food
Nice place with
Good comforts
Why this difference?
What they say is
Kid cost 500 dollars
But camel costs Million dollars
Who can stop it
It is illegal to have a kid as jockey
But who cares the ****** rule
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
It has never been my intension
nor was it ever a bone of contention
to alter or disrupt the social convention
but now is the time to pay close attention
to the decline of the human condition
Responsibility rescinded creating moral decomposition
accountability abandoned causing legal repercussion
right and wrong are muddled in a malicious juxtaposition
public opposition has festered into social imperfection
the omission of tradition by politician’s redefinition
HEED THIS ADMONITION OR ARDENT APPREHENSION
SAGACIOUS SUSPICION AND PERSISTANT PREVENTION
Of the decommission of the Physician, Pediatrician
the Technician, and the Mathematician
and give this acquisition to those with no ambition
even those under suspicion of sedition
or held in detention without fear of restitution
This is the deception of the devolution
of the middle classification
and the total destruction
of American personification
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
your spirit wrapped it's hands around me,
cold fingers with chewed on nails brushing over my collarbones
"you are certainly worth getting to know better."
"you make me realize what I am worthy of becoming."
"you see the good beneath my bloodshot eyes."
demons do not scream
they do not possess children
they do not leave trails of black on your grandmother's white carpet
they kiss you
they lean in to your ear and tell you all the ways you two could be one day
"I want a house, and three girls,"
he would say, his hot breath filling my eardrums
"I'll be a pediatrician, so I can save lives,"
he would tell you, his hand on your thigh
"I'd never leave you,"
he would yell, in between thrusts between your red and gray sheets
lies
it was all a trick
demons climb under your skin and lodge themselves beneath your bones
they seep their ethereal words into your bloodstream so that it can flow straight to you heart,
so that it'll be the first sound in the air when you take out your blades yet again, to release your demons into the atmosphere
they leave the taste of their secrets in your mouth so that they come to mind every time you speak
they break your heart and pour bleach into your eye sockets because if they don't want you then no one else should.
I remember how it felt
to sit on your bedroom floor
I see it in black and white blurs
there used to be color there
but it left with you
"you're the most intriguing girl I've seen in a long time,"
says the boy at the business conference,
he's trying to get you back to his hotel room
"you deserve so much more than this,"
whispers the baseball player,
he's trying to be polite
"I wrote you a song, since you remind me of music notes,"
tongues the musician,
he's trying to stop drinking
they're all trying
trying to be
nice
better
different
so many demons without souls
one put his hat in my locker last fall,
he wanted me to wear it,
I didn't.
one put his arm around me last spring,
he wanted me to taste his lips,
I didn't.
one put his sketchbook in my hands last winter,
he wanted me to realize I was art,
I didn't.
but sometimes you miss demons
one left me because
I wasn't loving enough
one left me because
I wasn't slutty enough
one left me because
I wasn't confident enough
I was
closed off
with closed legs
and closed lips
I missed his smile
but he missed my body
I missed his hands
and he missed where his hands went
I missed his eyes
and he missed my bed
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
An absent father's failure with an inhaler in hand
Insecurity seething from his skin
Manifesting it's self as bulbous red abrasions on his forehead
A heavy breathing child who's eyes were often aimed low
His expectations for life even lower
A little over weight but not enough to concern his pediatrician
He cut gym class a lot because of the showers
Now fourteen he had seen a few ******
He knew he didn't match up
It was better that no one knew he thought
He went on living like this
A pale shadow hovering in the halls
A faceless nobody in the background of someone else's group photo
A ghost who was only noticed by those who tortured him
Bullies like sharks can smell blood in the water
And he was chum
I still vividly see the feeding frenzy
I still remember the day we were told he took his own life
NO shrieks, NO cries, NOT even a whimper was heard
Almost a concerted sigh of boredom
That night there was a party
Not to celebrate his death
But an apathetic gesture of his nonexistence
I attended as was socially expected of me
Even wore a smile
But my mind wrestled with his suicide
I thought of how much I hated him
I hated the smell of his weakness
I hated the 'poor me' attitude
I hated him for taking his own life
Leaving me to feel guilty
That I had done nothing to help him
As if I was responsible in some way
...
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Birthdays are times for festivities, for being with family and friends. For me, it's a lonely time. Again, I'm spending it at the hospital. You tend to get this feeling that you are surrounded by so many people, colleagues, nurses, patients... yet you feel so alone... Still, the impromptu party we had more than made up for the loneliness. SOOO many food, the colorful wrappers and the gifts inside, the bantering and bickering, as well as funny stories and reminiscing... It's amazing how people cope, and end up feeling celebratory.
...Then a woman comes, just about to give birth, and in 30 seconds, party's over and we deliver a baby girl...
I stare at the baby I hold in my arms. It's a blessing to be given the honor, the opportunity to see new life unfold, to see the first gulp of air, hear the first ***** cry, have this moment when she looks in my eyes and I have this feeling that she can SEE me... For a second, it's just me and my baby, before the cooing from the parents, before the cord is clamped, and I give her to the pediatrician.
Thay say that we doctors save lives. Sometimes, the patients save ours...
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first period, first kiss, first full shave
from armpit to ankle.
The teacher pulls me aside--all smiles
and maternal excitement.
She tells me that my test scores put me
in the 98th percentile.
I **** my head, recalling the soft-lead, the
guarded pencil sharpener at the front of the room,
and the bullseye ovals that tested my mind,
my palm sweat, my straining eyes.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first violent fight with my mother, first homosexual
fantasy, first dressing room meltdown.
The pediatrician pulls me aside--half austerity, half pity.
He tells me that I need three HPV shots, and by the way,
my weight puts me
in the 98th percentile.
My eyes sink back into my face, and the flood doesn’t come
until I am home, curled into my mother’s breast,
wondering how to divide my head into
Focused Student and Focused Starver.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
times tables and long division and calories
in an apple and calories burned in a playground brawl.
I learn to count my success in numbers and my failures
in grams, pounds, inches, threats
of fat camp, images of thick yellow fat
sandwiched between my organs.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
98th percentile and chewing and spitting and growing
and pinching the body that I cannot call my own--
and numbing the brain that matches the magnitude of my fullness.
I am a split-girl, a shame reservoir spilling
over and out and coating my paper with fractions and plans
of calculated disappearance.
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
and the teacher’s clock doesn’t stop, and the and the doctor’s scale doesn’t pause
to make room for my magnitude.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
a man might talk
briefly
for hours
on the utility
of having
a more pronounced
dip
than another man
in his palm
and he might
retire
backstage
to a woman
whose cheeks
are gauze
whose ache
is mouth
whose greatest
nostalgia
belongs
to the left hand
of a pediatrician
buried
by god
not for carrying
the scar
of purpose
but for being
stuck
in a scene
of brutality
beside itself
with audience
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
To Be Honest, I'm 18 years old and I enjoy playing hide and seek, my favorite hiding place is behind the metaphors in my poetry, it's like hiding behind a mirror, everyone enters my poetry in search for me, buy only find something they can relate to, To Be Honest, I've had this gap between my teeth ever since I had teeth, the pediatrician said one day it would close up, I'm 18 years old and it has not closed up, like the gap between my teeth, I am ashamed of the wounds in my heart, they said that those would close up too, they said it would leave a scar, but I know it hasn't closed up, it hasn't healed, because everytime I see her, everytime I talk to her, the blood rushes from those same wounds and leaves my body, my hopes and dreams burst from my chest and I feel the pain of loving her all over again, so no they don't close up, but like the gap between my teeth I ignore these wounds until they present themselves again, To Be Honest, I'm 5ft 6, 135 lbs. And I'm a sucker for a girl with blue eyes, freckles, and a nice smile,
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
I am the wood shop air compressor’s pediatrician
I sit and wait in the pure darkness for it to stop
Grudgingly accepting this strange meditation
And in the street there is music on someone’s deck
Audible over the corner's relentless groan
And I can just barely make out voices
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
Away from the city I see Alcyone
and all the bright things I didn't know
existed,
and girl have I missed it.
At the pediatrician's office my mother
told me there was nothing
the doctor could do about my
anxious palms, no salve to cover
it, just keep rubbing them on my jeans
and raise my hand in class
with blue dye on the sides where
other kids have graphite but
you say you like the way my hands shine.
Our fingers, intertwined.
This place, its color saturates
when you return to it.
A cosmic ghost playing
a cosmic joke, waking up,
propping himself lazily on an elbow
in bed, casually sliding up
the brightness of the universe
like he does it every day, like he
was born to it, when really
we were.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
Atomically, I’m dropping bombs on the musical anatomy
Bohemian Rhapsody, blasting through speakers, boom went the casualties
Humans, reasons, life choices, treasons, are going up in flames, I’m the man for all the seasons
Cause I’m hotter than a summer with satan and all his demons
I’m blowing your mind like autumn in the north east region
I can turn colder than an unbeaten secretion of weakened policemen who are uneven by the corruption of a legion of plebeians.
I give cohesion and a voice for philosophical reason….
Overeatin’ … the competition, I take out their nutrition and replace it with some sort of decomposition of a squirrel with rigor mortois who had a premonition of getting hit by the car at the intersection cause he wasn’t expected by the Spanish inquisition
I’m a juxtaposition of rap and borderline contemplation of why we live in this nation of straight up fission and opposition
An omission, I love this country and all of its mathematicians and physicians who spend time building rockets and bombs and ammunition instead of helping those with ambitions to be something like a pediatrician who can then help those who have a tradition for addiction
Don’t even get me started with the politicians
Cause the suspicions have been running through my head so long they need an intermission
I need an electrician
To put back and connect the wires in my mind that have been so chewed and torn apart by the media and their contradictions
I hope the future that I’m seeing is one of fiction, and not a true definition.
Be a dreamer with defiance, have bold opposition.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
Precarious crucible
A lip on the edge
A tumour, a node
Surface tension,
On thought’s filament
Spike of zest
Rippling and full of wonder
Do I dare poke a hole
And admire what’s under?
Do I dare incise?
A line, a compromise
A rift, a drypoint line,
The burr is the red sea
Above an intense reef
Of life and death and
Everything in between.
A scarlet paradise
the visceral eden of the
pediatrician’s wall chart
that haunts every child’s dream
calls out to me as a mortal adult
the terror of the dark
itches just as much
as the urge to pull
away the flap and
see what light has not
yet graced
Do I treat my own real estate
like someone else’s property
And follow noble orders?
Or do I cultivate it and
Dig for buried treasure?
Hunt the beach, search for
fossils? Dowse for water?
Cleanse the land?
Slash and burn?
Carve out terraces?
I take my knife
I plow and explore.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
I knew a couple, in that once upon a time
Where fecundity was a going concern in our circle of friends,
Who’d lost another child mid-pregnancy
(It may have been the third time,
As such evils, oddly enough, tend to arrive as a trinity)
They’d fiercely, defiantly given the child a dozen names,
Including each of their saints’ names
(A finger to the eye of certain relatives,
Who’d implied and occasionally outright sniped
Recreation without procreation is the darkest of sins.)
They had, after a fashion, made a certain piece with all that transpired,
God’s will or vagaries of chance or something in-between,
But some weeks down the line the distaff part of the equation
Began to experience something akin to pure madness,
Finding evil portent and intent and all and sundry
Which they’d touched upon during pregnancy:
Doctors, in-laws, her spouse,
Even the fables they’d read to her unborn child
(The tale of the Three Little Pigs singled out for particular scorn;
*We live in a ******* house made of brick, and what did that get us?*
She all but screamed at her beleaguered husband.)
This all passed after a time, the ceasing of the episodes
Due to the end of some delayed post-partum depression, perhaps,
Or the grim realization that raging against some deaf deity
Is a fruitless, pointless, fretful strut across the stage,
But, in any case, life returned to normal, more or less,
Though her husband found it somewhat disconcerting
How, in the process of doing some semi-necessary remodeling
(Keep her busy, their pediatrician had told him in an aside)
She attacked the old walls in an unused bedroom upstairs
With something very much approximating fury,
The plaster-and-lath flying hither and yon,
The dust hanging in the air everywhere you looked,
Leaving a taste like ashes in their mouths for days afterward.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
My firstborn child is dear to me
She is the wise one among the girls
She cares a lot about her sisters
Always she is worried and cautious
She loves reading and writes prose
I think she will be a writer and proud
The day she was born I was so happy
I felt the sweet feeling of being a dad
But tomorrow morning my joy come to end
When the pediatrician told me a painful fact
One of her nerves had damaged in her neck
During the time when she was given birth
So it caused that she couldn't move
One of her arms, the right one
I went to a corner and cried in silence
This was the most painful moment in life
I called for God, she is a little girl
Take my arm instead, let her have a healthy one
We went to another specialist, a neurologist
She tested and said nerve is damaged but
There are some pulses that make me hope
But we need to wait for three months
I was at work when she called
My wife was, she was behind the line
She shouted with an excited voice
That our baby girl had just moved her arm
Written: Monday, April 8, 2019, 14:07
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC
Small cough
Little sneeze
Runny nose
Teary eyes.
Drug your body,
Keep it fresh
Drink some water
Let it be.
Minor headache
Itchy body,
Burning eyes
Hurting ears.
Pediatrician gives you drugs,
Take it now,
Three a day.
Heating fever,
Body aching
Brain melting,
Reality breaking.
Hospital is nearing,
Vision blurring
On a bed,
In a car.
Light shining
Men looking,
Knife cutting,
You dying.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 12:32 AM UTC