"physiological" poems
Thank you for the memories,
The unexpected, sudden hits of nostalgia
Taking me back to carefree days
Of playing football after a summer rainstorm,
Of laughing in woodwork class,
Of my grandmother's awesome cakes.
Like time travel on the cheap,
You weather away the years,
And the strata of cynicism and regret,
Momentarily eroding my reality,
Revealing the manchild at my core,
Allowing him the briefest chance to once again explore.
But these are unpredictable reveries,
Three dimensional snatches of memories.
It's time they developed some kind of smell recorder,
Just like sights and sounds can be held for posterity.
But such technology would not compare to my physiological wonder;
Magically transforming scent into vivid memories.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
So there is this pyramid.
We learned about it last week
This guy, his name was Maslow...is Maslow
maybe he is still alive. I'm not sure.
I don't even know his full name....I''ll probably do really well in this class, by the way.
So, Maslow, he came up with this pyramid.
A pyramid of physiological need. Ineresting right?
I think it is pretty interesting.
The bottom of the pyramid, the biggest part, contains the things you need the most.
Air, water, food, sleep...you get the idea.
The next part says saftey and security.
In order to live a fufilling life you need...
air, water, food, sleep, saftey and security.
Pretty simple
Then, this guy Maslow, he throws this ******** into the mix...
on the next level of the pyramid he puts love and belonging.
Love and belonging?
A necessity?
I have only lived about 19 years of my life
and I think it is safe to say that I have never loved.
Not really loved anyone.
I love my mom, I love my dog.
I hope that is the kind of love that Maslow is talking about or else
....I am not fufilling my physiological needs.
So I'm a little ****** up, yeah I could belive that.
To top this **** off.
Maslow throws Esteem and Self-esteem on the tip top of this pyramid.
Well now Maslow...hes really making my day
I got none of that either.
So here I am taking some notes in class and
Maslow makes me realized that I'm a pretty incomplete person.
Right here, in the middle of my Psychology lecture
surounded by at least 300 other incomplete people.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Serotonin
Oxytocin
mu-2
Kappa
Melatonin
Acetylcholine
Dopamine
Epinephrine
Your love is a drug
your touch is an addiction
with pupil dilation
and body feeling free
I really do
even scientifically get high
when you are next to me
The hormones and pheromones
flow in through my nose
sink into my skin
and flow through
then out again
as we lay entwined
smelling
tasting
and touching each other.
To explain love
is both intangible
illogical
and unknown
while at the same time
a scientific
and physiological study
of the way our bodies interact.
True love
versus
lust and arousal
which is more addicting
and which is something worth predicting?
These must be the reasons
why when we are together
we cannot seem to think
we just want to sleep
we laugh about nothing
and smile for miles
we both go limp
and hard at the same time
sending us both on a ride
that leaves us flying high
I must say
that addiction runs in my family
and I am not sure
I will ever be able to give you up.
Worse than nicotine
caffeine
pills
and alcohol
Your love truly is a drug
and I will never leave you under the rug.
It is said that what is between two people,
is something no other will understand
even the most in depth conversation
can never explain
….and yet here I am
writing ten times a day
to try and convey this feeling to others
all in complete
pride and vain.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 3:25 PM UTC
The unseen is so intangible to humanity that it screams Hersey in defense of limited carnal senses. Even if the womb could inhabit scientists in pre-birth form they could merely predict that the umbilical cord was the result of the big bang which was brought on by flatulence before the great earthquake of indigestion. The true miracle of birth is the unseen…how in the darkness of gestation a blind love is reflected through a heartbeat that is perceived only physiologically. They could never fathom the deeper water of love that a man has with a women! Conversely we are not immune to this fallibility within the new embryonic process called mother earth and its new limited senses that perceive love as tangible. Love is not a feeling like an umbilical cord or is it a marriage that brings beauty and personal happiness on earth. Love is bigger than the thick and thin of this imperfect dieing world! Marriage is the umbilical cord to a true love that is again unseen and reflected in the heartbeat of the Cross which eclipses all Physiological and cognitive impulses. Love never fades………………….
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Our love is just biological and physiological.
It is too many of prefixes.
I need less BIO-logy and more LOGICal.
When our bodies are moving together you bite my neck and I say **** I hate this song”
We are not real.
Five minutes later you’ll be texting with someone else
And I’ll be occupying my new private room – kitchen.
we no longer hear each other, we just listen.
No longer see each other, just watch and look through.
All that remains in common between us is only dishes
and then it was me who bought it.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
Jeweled.. map... talk
Wipe her... teardrops...
He summoned her
Braveheart
"The Hipster" starry eye
Commando Chief
Trampled the hot item
help!!
* * * *
Rubies in the Paradox
Pep-talk thief Fox
* * * * *
Red Rhapsody
Hey, Buster, on the
Tip of the "Ice Queen"
"King Speech"
Her lips
Practice what your eyes
Preach whats inside his lips
Lip marooned force
Afterfight doomed
"Divorce"
He tapped took a bite
So vamp lit her lip
Apple stumbles
Mr. Cobbler
Lips got caught to be
crumbled
Clicks movie flicks
* * * *
Physiological College of chicks
On her Demon laptop lovesick
Sisters of the Sentinel
Fingers clicking like quicksand
Ancient lips touch the shadow
Of his smile
Does anyone have a
soft spot for Angels
The psychotic broken wing on the verge
The lip pledge Demon
Give him a shot lip
bullet glass
"Red Electricity" he smiled
Certain lip she deserved
The floppy disk
Sweet breath
His baking whisker's
Those baby boomers
Top of the lip rumors
the right kiss
"Emmy" Jet set trips
Their chattering lips
Niagara falls duty calls
"Lip Shoutbox"
Her lips touched on
A nerve
schemingly
He blew up like the
Cherry bomb we will
succumb dreamily
Could blow his
lips down
How she wore the
red velvet bustier
A+ lip magnet
He's the connoisseur
La Luna melancholy
"The World Is Dying"
No apology
The symphony in line
With the lip up
His chin down is lying
But when your smiling
A poem knows what your
lips are saying
Are you in way too deep
Lips like cold cuts the
paparazzi mob sheep
The movie cut Deli line
Race her the Italian
Mazzaratti be mine
Demon jungle no plain
Jane's lips
Hurry up your highness
lost his taste for goodness
Do angels die her lips went___?
Angel confession another
revelation
One lie please "I am the Angel"
we never live to die
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 8:05 AM UTC
I let the beat come in so can I commit a sin again,
With my friends, asking does this madness really ever end?
It’s cyclical, repetitive and cynical,
I’m a loser lost in the place where winners go,
Like a maze, without an exit in sight,
These type of thoughts keep me awake every night,
I can’t get an ounce of sleep, so I get a gram of dro,
And that keeps me problem free for an hour or so,
I know it’s wrong, sort of physiological dependency,
I struggle, feeling like the weight of the world’s been set on me,
I’m disassociated until I get a beat to slay, because
Writing helps me find just right where my place is,
If not, I get wasted, a drunk punk, faceless,
I know I’ve got a problem, but i’m too scared to face it..
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
My fingernails are ***** from the blackness of the graphite coated words
refusing to come to actualization.
My tongue chokes on the half formed sentences
swimming in the back of my throat.
They fill my mouth with a bitterness
coming only with the acidity known to unrequited thoughts.
Physiological markers of one who has simply too much to feel,
the penance for scar tissue of wounds who too quickly "healed."
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Squelch into the deepest puddles where sadness echoes her silent heart across physiological plateaus of numbness.
Can I have permission to permeate your being whilst plantations convey their sorceries beyond seeming sophistication?
We must interact beyond the realms of that which is anticipated.
I am sincerely grateful for those broken hemispheres of discrimination,
because we are lost within the parameters of being found.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
How do you measure the once-was? The invisible? The void?
*The ache in my heart is not physiological,
although it may feel like it sometimes is.*
I can measure the words I write,
the words that get stuck in my throat.
The boxes of belongings left over. (You can narrow down a person’s
physical life by how many trips it
takes to Goodwill.)
How many songs can I now not stand?
How many scents are now trigger trapdoors?
Shall I count the number of times I’ve thought of you today?
No ******* thank you.
Measuring is for the birds.
The doctors and
the scientists.
I keep reaching inside and pulling out my still beating,
but rotting and decaying heart
only to be told it’s perfectly fine.
I refuse to be gaslit on my grief anymore.
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 10:00 PM UTC
It's funny how people tell me I'm strong, tough
Independent
But some things make me so weak
My will breaks easily and I fall
I'm not talking about physical weakness
Nor any type of physiological frailty
My mind and heart are the problem
And sometimes I wonder
Were the tinman and scarecrow wrong?
True, there is benefit in having a heart
And yes, a mind has much to offer
But the heart remembers you
The mind aches with pain
And I'm tired of being broken
I know I can be sweet
Kindness is little problem
But does one need a heart to be kind?
Perhaps its absence would suit me better
And if I think, I think so often of the past
What could have been, what might have been
And I think(hah think) that maybe
Losing my mind wouldn't be so bad
So tell me heart, and you also mind
What is your great redeeming quality?
I'm dying to know
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."
"You're too sweet."
"It's not a problem."
After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?
Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Can't you see I'm Crying?
Not the liquid kind of tears
But on the inside.
More powerful
painful-
Than expression allows.
I am trying
Against all I was taught
From my first day as a man
"Do not cry"
A scraped knee.
"Do not cry"
What if they laugh at me?
"Do not cry"
I learned so well
I taught my physiological shell
"Do not cry"
And now I sit
Struggling against myself
Aching to spill
This one tiny drop of pain
Before it shatters my soul.
And yet you-
Prodding fool
Foolishly ****
Can't you see I'm Crying?
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
I've come to realize the fragility of life itself as of late; a delicate dance of psychological and physiological elements, converging in the process of sustaining a human life.
These components become so complexly intertwined; wrapping themselves around each other whilst expanding and contracting.
My biological systems may keep humming along, subconsciously—yet it is in my mental environment that I choose to allow them to continue. A fascinating concept.
Neurons fire in my brain, telling my arm to extend itself outwards in front of me as if to point at something interesting. More signals are sent, instructing my arm to bend at the elbow; I am now staring at the palm of my hand that rests a few inches from my face.
Neurons continue to spark and my hand slowly twists for me to examine its backside, and then it returns to its original position. My eyes are entranced as they explore the landscape of my palm; its creases and folds resemble a map of sorts.
Fingers methodically open and close—fist, open palm, fist, open palm. My grey matter is aglow as a colorful lighting storm of activity pulses throughout.
Eyes close for a moment.
Thoughts.
Memories.
Thoughts.
They open up again to glare at this dead hand. That’s the fascinating part, the fact that the very signals that are sent to trigger these hand movements—or to trigger my lips to form a pucker or toes to tap, tap, tap to a beat—can also instruct those fleshy appendages to move in such a way to extinguish my own life.
No safeguards? No life-preserving big red button that my subconscious can press in order to save itself?
Nope.
A choice.
A dance.
And I’ve decided tonight…I’m staying alive.
Because somewhere buried deep in my psyche is a little wrinkled-up piece of notepaper with the following words scribbled upon it:
“The sunrise is just over that hill. The worst is over.”
Aug 22, 2022
Aug 22, 2022 at 12:31 PM UTC
some say that it's a physiological fact
that when someone appears
in your dreams
it means that they're missing you
so, I've come to the sad conclusion
that I am probably found in your dreams quite often
yet you never appear in mine
and that is why I hate science
just as much as I hate love
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
The orchestral and harmonic vocals of monks echo down spiralled and cast-iron staircases to the dungeons of our carefully crafted castle chambers of submission.
It is all in the warmth of our carotid pulse.
Oh delusional salesman of presumed superior status, it is important to acknowledge those spasmodic and physiological celebratory responses which resound like cross-cultural and cosmological anthems within the questionable corridors of fitness to stand trial.
I can feel your quivering pulse.
However, we must recognise that the required reports are not dissimilar to a beautifully carved chicken which is subject to the paradoxically crude and culinary eloquence and deviance of the gleeful pyromaniac.
The geometry of midnight has clearly outlined her symmetrical shapes, which require seasoning and the skillful administration of being quartered.
Chef, can I ask you: is designation superior to our authentic anthropological status?
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Poem a day, number 22
How much of my choices are my own?
Physiological compulsions
Societal pressures.
How much of my choices are my own
I muse, as I grab another sugary treat.
My own personal addiction.
It's not respected as an addiction
People smirk,
Or quip 'Oh yeah I have a sweet tooth too'
'No, no' I say
'It's medically proven
To have the same reaction in the brain as cocaine'
I can see them thinking
'Yeah right' as they smile and say
'Oh really?'
But the pressure to partake
'Just this once won't hurt'
Really? Do you say that to alcoholics too?
Are people quitting smoking
Expected to smoke for a day or two,
Because it's Christmas, Easter, Birthdays...
How much of my choices are my own?
When you can't actually live without
Some sort of sugar.
In a society where anything with a hint of processing
Is likely to have some refined sugar
And the more convenience the higher the risk.
How much is my choice?
When managing my addiction is more about
Keeping sugar to a bearable level.
An addiction that can't be cut out completely
As my hand starts to shake at the mere thought of
Having to 'quit' again.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
Friends come and go like the seasons change.
Nothing last forever, nothing we can arrange.
You are special to me.
Too special for the eye to see.
I have this feeling or sensation, its more like a connection, but its nothing more than pure affection.
Like when you go down a roller coaster and your stomach turns.
It's the same thing when I'm with you, my body churns.
It's your physiological essence that I seek.
Something unexplainable, you could say unique.
Words are only half of what I feel.
The rest is in my actions and what I conceal.
I don't think this.... Will ever go away.
Hopefully you will kind of understand what my worlds are trying to portray.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Noone to judge and the freedom to be who you want, self expression with lack of criticism. Not a matter of wrong and right, it's whatever I want to do. No presence of concern or opinions of others. Not approval of others or undesirable judgements. Peace of mind because oh do spirits soar, but not when I'm alone. Such a confusion we live with so many distractions, a break from it sometimes feels like it all. Who better to understand ones self than one self. Seeking compatibility to survive amongst each other, laws of nature would suggest we are better alone, people's lack of loyalty and commitment, such selfish beings amongst selfless acts when in our own best interest. It's physiological warfare between good and evil according to the masses, however alone I am my greatest investor amongst the world of egoism.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Eat, drink, smoke; cake, coffee, Camel; all day, every day
Then some semblance of self preservation, a physiological salvage screams an alert and for a couple of weeks I maintain lean and mean
Eat, drink, smoke; cake, coffee, Camel; all day, every day
Self realisation struck like lightening; a lifetime of silent decency, consideration, tolerance, obedience, generosity – absorbing everyone else’s rot
I take it all in, then eat, drink and smoke more, subliminally goading the flood gates to burst, but nothing comes out
Well here it is, my public announcement, opening my mouth and letting the screams flow
A baby step I know; I’ll try a couple of lean and mean weeks and then let the true target audience know
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC