"pharmacists" poems - Hello Poetry

The voices inside my head are taking over. These u-u-uncontrollable quirks I have. My eyes twitch as many times as a heart beats after doing a triathlon. In my head of runs a marathon of thoughts that don't belong, things I can't do because they're wrong. Within my blood stream flows 1.26 grams of dopamine given to me by doctors who don't know how to fix my situation, only mix prescriptions to intensify vexation. Pharmacists eyeball me fearingly because I appear to be nothing but someone with chemicals wandering around into the little bit of a brain I have left. Serotonin to regulate my mood, appetite, and sleep but I still only wish for all of this to be nothing but a dream. All of this making my intestines mutilate, slowly dying inside as if I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Otherwise known as I.B.S. but I know for a fact that this is all just a bunch of B.S. My enterochromaffin cells may just burst, I am often told. If only I could tell what was real from what was fake. For I also have A.D.H. - whoa! What's that?! Sorry, where was I? Oh. Tourettes Syndrome. I guess I just twitch it off. Maybe these are all figures of my imagination from the hallucinogens. Who knows? After all, I am a schizophrenic.

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Apr 22, 2015

Apr 22, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC

ashley-singh

Monsters Inside Me

The voices inside my head are taking over. These u-u-uncontrollable quirks I have. My eyes twitch as many times as a heart beats after doing a triathlon. In my head of runs a marathon of thoughts that don't belong, things I can't do because they're wrong. Within my blood stream flows 1.26 grams of dopamine given to me by doctors who don't know how to fix my situation, only mix prescriptions to intensify vexation. Pharmacists eyeball me fearingly because I appear to be nothing but someone with chemicals wandering around into the little bit of a brain I have left. Serotonin to regulate my mood, appetite, and sleep but I still only wish for all of this to be nothing but a dream. All of this making my intestines mutilate, slowly dying inside as if I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Otherwise known as I.B.S. but I know for a fact that this is all just a bunch of B.S. My enterochromaffin cells may just burst, I am often told. If only I could tell what was real from what was fake. For I also have A.D.H. - whoa! What's that?! Sorry, where was I? Oh. Tourettes Syndrome. I guess I just twitch it off. Maybe these are all figures of my imagination from the hallucinogens. Who knows? After all, I am a schizophrenic.

18

We, the uninsured being inured to this, the will of gods. Our lives doled out in tablet form from birth to breath by those pharmacists with death proscribed, prescription wise. My eyes have seen the crookedness that shake foundations, three times a day we pray again to all the gods to open up and swallow pills and god just nods his head,agrees that we need medications. The ***** top bottle throttles me but I am strangled happily by those 'dolls' the greens and reds of fol de rols a plague on gaudiness unless instructions say, take the pills three times a day. These games we play, I'll say, are just a side event,a small diversion to prevent us from ever having to face the facts, but we're inured to that and so, on and on and on we go until the end is reached. I plead, just one more pill, it appears that this is not the will of god or any pharmacist, I missed the last bus home,but home is hell and so that's just as well. I wait in the wings to see what tomorrow brings.

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Aug 14, 2014

Aug 14, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Outlaws

We, the uninsured being inured to this, the will of gods. Our lives doled out in tablet form from birth to breath by those pharmacists with death proscribed, prescription wise. My eyes have seen the crookedness that shake foundations, three times a day we pray again to all the gods to open up and swallow pills and god just nods his head,agrees that we need medications. The ***** top bottle throttles me but I am strangled happily by those 'dolls' the greens and reds of fol de rols a plague on gaudiness unless instructions say, take the pills three times a day. These games we play, I'll say, are just a side event,a small diversion to prevent us from ever having to face the facts, but we're inured to that and so, on and on and on we go until the end is reached. I plead, just one more pill, it appears that this is not the will of god or any pharmacist, I missed the last bus home,but home is hell and so that's just as well. I wait in the wings to see what tomorrow brings.

30

Pharmacist with the funny face I’m not sure how the lines were etched and set in place across a severe brow like storms had raged and winters chill had set the frozen expression into an acid dipped contour. Each time I went with a prescription to collect remedies for a cough and cold a limp here a sore there some racing bp charts an erring heart muscle. His face remained stoic. His face alone would frighten me as pale as death he looked at me over the rimmed glasses and just that one second longer than necessary. My guilt soared. I felt like an addict come into store to fetch a high kick of something suspicion hidden under the GPs scrawl. I dared to look back flushing red at his store. It became a battle of the blush. Twice I won And never went back for a whole six months Is he the guy that protects our streets from the throaty lozenge that may contain crack ******* hidden in its entrails? I dont know but I always felt he had a secret sleeve from where he pulled out those potions! © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

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Jul 3, 2014

Jul 3, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC

marshall-gass

The pharmacists furious face

Pharmacist with the funny face I’m not sure how the lines were etched and set in place across a severe brow like storms had raged and winters chill had set the frozen expression into an acid dipped contour. Each time I went with a prescription to collect remedies for a cough and cold a limp here a sore there some racing bp charts an erring heart muscle. His face remained stoic. His face alone would frighten me as pale as death he looked at me over the rimmed glasses and just that one second longer than necessary. My guilt soared. I felt like an addict come into store to fetch a high kick of something suspicion hidden under the GPs scrawl. I dared to look back flushing red at his store. It became a battle of the blush. Twice I won And never went back for a whole six months Is he the guy that protects our streets from the throaty lozenge that may contain crack ******* hidden in its entrails? I dont know but I always felt he had a secret sleeve from where he pulled out those potions! © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

34

Sisters: my veins drain into the sand. My grave exists on wood. My eyes close. The crows pick at my womb; my brain. Each nail tattoos my blood into my bones. My dying started long ago; it started in my youth, when Teacher told us boys pull our pigtails, shove us down on playground pavement to show their love. It started in high school, where bare shoulders blinded boys from their books. And now we are twenty. Now men's fingers pull us into the dark. Now the alley concrete burns. Now a suit and tie asks if his defendant could see your breast and thigh. One out of every three; if we escape their claws we do so narrowly. If we flee when they call, we risk the slice of a knife or an exit wound or an asphalt tomb. Whistles peel at our skin, the wolves to our moon. My body is a temple. I open my womb to expel all who intrude: wrinkled politicians with withered pens, with legalese, God's pharmacists, the filthy, forceful tongues of men who chain my worth to fertility. I drive them from my holy rooms with whips of cords. My body is limp on these boards. My skin is an ossuary for relics women will soon possess. It is easy for me to die. I bleed for my Chinese sisters, slain before they speak; for my Indian sisters, doused with acid, stolen while they sleep; for my Saudi sisters, given a warden, kept from their own streets; for my American sisters, losing their bodies to others’ strict beliefs. I bleed, I bleed; come, stand in the scarlet mud. Come, bathe your feet, wash your hands in the dregs of my end; come, purge unwanted seed. Come, drink of my last breath, women who wear veils, women who sell *** The crows circle, the vultures too-- I smell of death. I am not weak. I will not forgive them; they know just what they do. Now, my slaughtered sisters. Now, my survivors. Set down your stones. Take the nails from my feet, plunder my bones. Wear them as amulets. In three days, I will rise and forge weapons from your cries.

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Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC

enpointephoenix

Psalm For My Sisters: A Passion Play

Sisters: my veins drain into the sand. My grave exists on wood. My eyes close. The crows pick at my womb; my brain. Each nail tattoos my blood into my bones. My dying started long ago; it started in my youth, when Teacher told us boys pull our pigtails, shove us down on playground pavement to show their love. It started in high school, where bare shoulders blinded boys from their books. And now we are twenty. Now men's fingers pull us into the dark. Now the alley concrete burns. Now a suit and tie asks if his defendant could see your breast and thigh. One out of every three; if we escape their claws we do so narrowly. If we flee when they call, we risk the slice of a knife or an exit wound or an asphalt tomb. Whistles peel at our skin, the wolves to our moon. My body is a temple. I open my womb to expel all who intrude: wrinkled politicians with withered pens, with legalese, God's pharmacists, the filthy, forceful tongues of men who chain my worth to fertility. I drive them from my holy rooms with whips of cords. My body is limp on these boards. My skin is an ossuary for relics women will soon possess. It is easy for me to die. I bleed for my Chinese sisters, slain before they speak; for my Indian sisters, doused with acid, stolen while they sleep; for my Saudi sisters, given a warden, kept from their own streets; for my American sisters, losing their bodies to others’ strict beliefs. I bleed, I bleed; come, stand in the scarlet mud. Come, bathe your feet, wash your hands in the dregs of my end; come, purge unwanted seed. Come, drink of my last breath, women who wear veils, women who sell *** The crows circle, the vultures too-- I smell of death. I am not weak. I will not forgive them; they know just what they do. Now, my slaughtered sisters. Now, my survivors. Set down your stones. Take the nails from my feet, plunder my bones. Wear them as amulets. In three days, I will rise and forge weapons from your cries.

78

NOT LOOKING AT OURSELVES August 7, 2009 - Damascus Ayad bin Izzet Why is it so hard to think of ourselves? Why is it so hard to change bad habits that seem to possess us? It seems to be a near certain fact, that humans do not like to think of themselves; certainly, very few seriously, deeply think about themselves. Who asks himself: “How do I look like to people?” “How do I sound to people, when I say this and that?” “Why is it people like certain aspects of my behaviour?” When you open up such a subject to people in general, it is common to hear: “Look, I don’t care what people may think of me”. But an answer like that will not help you go far in this world. You do need to pay attention to what people think about you, otherwise you will be, de facto, behaving like a tyrannical dictator – you are, in effect, alienating and restricting the advancement of your varied self interests. Why you ask me? Because we all need people if we are going to succeed in our professional and social lives. Without the agreement of people you cannot succeed, unless if your work can survive within a hermit’s context. So why are people so antagonistic to change themselves? I think that for people they are scared of thinking about themselves because they fear what they might find out the nature of what is existing within themselves. Another reason, is addiction. A person may simply be compulsively addicted to the harmful personality he has – yes, even if he knows that his personality is harmful to his own self interests. I talk about this subject because we all do need to change our selves, our personalities - since all the troubles of our entire lives emanate from one source: we dysfunctional humans! Where else do they come from? And yet, anyone who has ever tried to explain to another person their faults will surely go nowhere. No one is interested. I know one lady who I call the ‘Pharmacist’ because she lovingly showers everyone else with advice, while she herself cannot bear to hear one word with respect to her faults. And then, as the years passed, I came to realize, why all people are basically ‘Pharmacists’! People have an obstinacy that harder than leather, colder than an icicle; we simply will not improve, as human beings, if we remain this determined not to reform our minds. And there is nothing else to add on this sorry subject. How pathetically sad. A fine epitaph on Humanity’s grave.

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Feb 2, 2010

Feb 2, 2010 at 8:02 AM UTC

ayad-gharbawi

Not Looking At Ourselves - Ayad Gharbawi

NOT LOOKING AT OURSELVES August 7, 2009 - Damascus Ayad bin Izzet Why is it so hard to think of ourselves? Why is it so hard to change bad habits that seem to possess us? It seems to be a near certain fact, that humans do not like to think of themselves; certainly, very few seriously, deeply think about themselves. Who asks himself: “How do I look like to people?” “How do I sound to people, when I say this and that?” “Why is it people like certain aspects of my behaviour?” When you open up such a subject to people in general, it is common to hear: “Look, I don’t care what people may think of me”. But an answer like that will not help you go far in this world. You do need to pay attention to what people think about you, otherwise you will be, de facto, behaving like a tyrannical dictator – you are, in effect, alienating and restricting the advancement of your varied self interests. Why you ask me? Because we all need people if we are going to succeed in our professional and social lives. Without the agreement of people you cannot succeed, unless if your work can survive within a hermit’s context. So why are people so antagonistic to change themselves? I think that for people they are scared of thinking about themselves because they fear what they might find out the nature of what is existing within themselves. Another reason, is addiction. A person may simply be compulsively addicted to the harmful personality he has – yes, even if he knows that his personality is harmful to his own self interests. I talk about this subject because we all do need to change our selves, our personalities - since all the troubles of our entire lives emanate from one source: we dysfunctional humans! Where else do they come from? And yet, anyone who has ever tried to explain to another person their faults will surely go nowhere. No one is interested. I know one lady who I call the ‘Pharmacist’ because she lovingly showers everyone else with advice, while she herself cannot bear to hear one word with respect to her faults. And then, as the years passed, I came to realize, why all people are basically ‘Pharmacists’! People have an obstinacy that harder than leather, colder than an icicle; we simply will not improve, as human beings, if we remain this determined not to reform our minds. And there is nothing else to add on this sorry subject. How pathetically sad. A fine epitaph on Humanity’s grave.

19

My father, he always has so much to say, you know. He loves weddings. My daughter, yes, she’s always been so smart, and we’re so proud of her. He says it like he knows anything about me. I nod and smile, and shrink myself in front of the men. What is there to do but pretend? No one needs to know about the ways that you made me unlovable, the way I spread my legs, the way I strike a match. We don’t talk about it. It’s cultural values, or something like that. Look at the happy couple, interchangeably pharmacists, physicists, or physicians. The groom smiles, the bride does too, they’re both so good. I sit there and dream of it. A mandap, a great big white horse. I would be forcing it, I knew, but I wanted them to see me in red. I wanted to walk down that aisle alone, and smile, demurely, smugly – look what I did. I got him, I wore him down. I dream like it makes it redeemable, the things that I’ve done. How bad is the punishment if I deviated with best intentions? We hold onto these tiny ambitions, the boy the buffet line and the bragging rights, like it undoes the damage.

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Oct 28, 2017

Oct 28, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC

nishades

Shaadi Mubarak

My father, he always has so much to say, you know. He loves weddings. My daughter, yes, she’s always been so smart, and we’re so proud of her. He says it like he knows anything about me. I nod and smile, and shrink myself in front of the men. What is there to do but pretend? No one needs to know about the ways that you made me unlovable, the way I spread my legs, the way I strike a match. We don’t talk about it. It’s cultural values, or something like that. Look at the happy couple, interchangeably pharmacists, physicists, or physicians. The groom smiles, the bride does too, they’re both so good. I sit there and dream of it. A mandap, a great big white horse. I would be forcing it, I knew, but I wanted them to see me in red. I wanted to walk down that aisle alone, and smile, demurely, smugly – look what I did. I got him, I wore him down. I dream like it makes it redeemable, the things that I’ve done. How bad is the punishment if I deviated with best intentions? We hold onto these tiny ambitions, the boy the buffet line and the bragging rights, like it undoes the damage.

49

What is it really like to be old? Read along, and you'll be told, Well, there's spectacles and hearing aids, Also along the way, by the way, There's dentures in glasses, Zimmers on greys who want to make passes, Then there's incontinence aids, bad hips, Appointments at medical specialists, Then you're off to the pharmacists, To get all your scripts, Then there's the alphabet song, Read along, read along, A is for Arthritis, B is for Bursitis, C is for Constipation, Always a grey consternation, D is for Diarrhoea, And no doctor wants to know ya! Finally, Z is for the big sleep at the end, No wonder geriatrics go round the bend, Yes, greys, these are our golden years, Have fun learning, no need for tears!

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Feb 23, 2017

Feb 23, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC

julie-grenness

AH, THE JOYS OF AGING.......

What is it really like to be old? Read along, and you'll be told, Well, there's spectacles and hearing aids, Also along the way, by the way, There's dentures in glasses, Zimmers on greys who want to make passes, Then there's incontinence aids, bad hips, Appointments at medical specialists, Then you're off to the pharmacists, To get all your scripts, Then there's the alphabet song, Read along, read along, A is for Arthritis, B is for Bursitis, C is for Constipation, Always a grey consternation, D is for Diarrhoea, And no doctor wants to know ya! Finally, Z is for the big sleep at the end, No wonder geriatrics go round the bend, Yes, greys, these are our golden years, Have fun learning, no need for tears!

22

Peace on your head, Brother I Love you. We Love you. PEACE YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID. WITHOUT HIM I WOULD BE DEAD nah No im not deaf Place treble cleff Im not the best but one day I hope to be the best that I can be. That we can be, be free. NO SEE we are one and of one blood you YOU HERE ME SON said we are one we ONE STAR the son we need the blood I see the son BLINDING EYES im fighting lies inside my mind i hide the blind. Like playing poker but the river is only mine imtryin to find; A doubtfull shadow in a drought over overexposure in a year boutes ROUND 1 HERE ME CLEARY MY SON ears and eyes can be numb Steady ******* my thumb Heres the truck and it runs Spill my ill from this quill bleed a vision Instill? Piledrive at the mill Robots is Optomis drilled Pills and pharmacists **** Im just a kid when it comes to this But poetry is this is Hope you dont miss this TWIST IT UP IF YOU WANT To do it thru it we **** hate And Love is my median No not a comedian Just meditate I see a dream and it's color blind I said the gun is thiers and im right We SOLD YOU RIGHT!? IM COLD AS ICE. but hold it tight. I speak too boldy right. Seams white is not the light? Mold me and soul the frieght GHOST IS A SOLDIER NIGHT hahha ^-^ hahha love ya Brother

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Dec 13, 2014

Dec 13, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC

McPoe

Bushido

Peace on your head, Brother I Love you. We Love you. PEACE YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID. WITHOUT HIM I WOULD BE DEAD nah No im not deaf Place treble cleff Im not the best but one day I hope to be the best that I can be. That we can be, be free. NO SEE we are one and of one blood you YOU HERE ME SON said we are one we ONE STAR the son we need the blood I see the son BLINDING EYES im fighting lies inside my mind i hide the blind. Like playing poker but the river is only mine imtryin to find; A doubtfull shadow in a drought over overexposure in a year boutes ROUND 1 HERE ME CLEARY MY SON ears and eyes can be numb Steady ******* my thumb Heres the truck and it runs Spill my ill from this quill bleed a vision Instill? Piledrive at the mill Robots is Optomis drilled Pills and pharmacists **** Im just a kid when it comes to this But poetry is this is Hope you dont miss this TWIST IT UP IF YOU WANT To do it thru it we **** hate And Love is my median No not a comedian Just meditate I see a dream and it's color blind I said the gun is thiers and im right We SOLD YOU RIGHT!? IM COLD AS ICE. but hold it tight. I speak too boldy right. Seams white is not the light? Mold me and soul the frieght GHOST IS A SOLDIER NIGHT hahha ^-^ hahha love ya Brother

42

On the street edgings spring pharmacists, fledglings, peddling their wares and nobody cares. More people are done by drugs people have done and it's not any fun anymore. I leave them alone now and get by without them, somehow life seems a lot better.

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Jan 30, 2015

Jan 30, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Dealing the hand

On the street edgings spring pharmacists, fledglings, peddling their wares and nobody cares. More people are done by drugs people have done and it's not any fun anymore. I leave them alone now and get by without them, somehow life seems a lot better.

14

worrying of a brain hemorrhage from illicit things or prescribed demons, a coronary on the verge of happening, a massive overdose just waiting, a psychiatrist not really solving, friends, saying take this pharmacists street and legal, medicate your will into a blue green tired witching siren screaming into wigging violence take smoke shoot **** hit bang wig go off get on get off you think for ten minutes slow decay fast death worlds fall around you, no outlets, no day sleep until you take somethings, drink gin fall in your puke smile never again.

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May 17, 2015

May 17, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC

wordvango

same thing

worrying of a brain hemorrhage from illicit things or prescribed demons, a coronary on the verge of happening, a massive overdose just waiting, a psychiatrist not really solving, friends, saying take this pharmacists street and legal, medicate your will into a blue green tired witching siren screaming into wigging violence take smoke shoot **** hit bang wig go off get on get off you think for ten minutes slow decay fast death worlds fall around you, no outlets, no day sleep until you take somethings, drink gin fall in your puke smile never again.

15

Please wait Help is on the way cereal box bursting plastic seams full to the brim Help is on the way too many high-sodium high-carbs everything that goes up must come down everything gripped white-palmed hits this polished rock bottom Help is on the way is the backpack-bearing bearded man with dirt slathered across flip-flop bare feet not accepted in addition to cash? See store for details. I am afraid he will ask me if I can spare some change but I have to keep quarters for laundry pods 25% off wish I could give him deliverance, tell him Help is on the way Please wait wish I could be a Pharmacists Who Care(s) I just Pick Up, Go. Did he fail to follow the instructions on life on pin-pad reverberates high-pitched privilege I am one of the guilty ones I look at him as if he were already expired stuff my guilt in the bagging area please keep all items in the bagging area I want to leave this one out. Where is my expiration date am I only Good Thru a Beauty Guarantee am I only Good Thru 40% percent of my body am I only Good Thru what is seen on tv? System processing Please wait Thank you for shopping

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Mar 2, 2018

Mar 2, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC

amanda-24

System, Processing

Please wait Help is on the way cereal box bursting plastic seams full to the brim Help is on the way too many high-sodium high-carbs everything that goes up must come down everything gripped white-palmed hits this polished rock bottom Help is on the way is the backpack-bearing bearded man with dirt slathered across flip-flop bare feet not accepted in addition to cash? See store for details. I am afraid he will ask me if I can spare some change but I have to keep quarters for laundry pods 25% off wish I could give him deliverance, tell him Help is on the way Please wait wish I could be a Pharmacists Who Care(s) I just Pick Up, Go. Did he fail to follow the instructions on life on pin-pad reverberates high-pitched privilege I am one of the guilty ones I look at him as if he were already expired stuff my guilt in the bagging area please keep all items in the bagging area I want to leave this one out. Where is my expiration date am I only Good Thru a Beauty Guarantee am I only Good Thru 40% percent of my body am I only Good Thru what is seen on tv? System processing Please wait Thank you for shopping

33

A normal day changes into a nightmare, One two three, soon the numbers rise, Soon nothing left but to act quickly, Constructions of makeshift hospitals with beds and critcal equipment necessary to fight the corona virus. All hands needed at the helm To steer through the storm of the deadly virus. Scientists, doctors,pharmacists paramedics, nurses,carers, volunteers, donors manufacturers to cleaners all deserve an ode and special prayers, Claps are not enough, Thank you's are not enough, These people live on remote control, To save and protect lives their first priority. I pray to Lord to give them strength and courage to heal the infected, To give solace to those who panic The will to serve humanity. The spirit to care for and support one another, Lord,you are strength and refuge, Guide them, Reward them in this life, Answer their prayers, And if they die in the service of humanity their afterlife is in Heaven. Amen. 30/3/2020

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Mar 30, 2020

Mar 30, 2020 at 8:09 AM UTC

salmabanu-hatim

Ode To All Those In The Fight Against Covid 19

A normal day changes into a nightmare, One two three, soon the numbers rise, Soon nothing left but to act quickly, Constructions of makeshift hospitals with beds and critcal equipment necessary to fight the corona virus. All hands needed at the helm To steer through the storm of the deadly virus. Scientists, doctors,pharmacists paramedics, nurses,carers, volunteers, donors manufacturers to cleaners all deserve an ode and special prayers, Claps are not enough, Thank you's are not enough, These people live on remote control, To save and protect lives their first priority. I pray to Lord to give them strength and courage to heal the infected, To give solace to those who panic The will to serve humanity. The spirit to care for and support one another, Lord,you are strength and refuge, Guide them, Reward them in this life, Answer their prayers, And if they die in the service of humanity their afterlife is in Heaven. Amen. 30/3/2020

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