"practitioner" poems
I don’t think this is an addiction.
No, honestly, it’s just the cat.
No, really, I just fell,
No, I’m positive, I hit a table and-
I don’t think this is an addiction.
If it were an addiction,
I would have to be out of control,
And I’m not doing it five times a day,
now am I?
Though admittedly I think about it,
Five hundred times a day this-
This is not an addiction.
This is not an addiction, I assure you,
when I’m well aware that’s what this is,
When I smile and say that “I’m fine,”
I hope you come to realize that most times,
It’s a lie, and-
“No, really, I ran into the coffee table,”
I grumble to my therapist.
I’ve gotten so good at hiding this that,
“No, I’m serious” and a forced look of honesty
Somehow gets me by.
“This is not an addiction,” I cry,
When I know, deep inside,
That, again, that is was this is.
This.. This is an addiction.
Cuts not healing for three weeks,
Thinking about it for hours at a time,
Wanting the euphoria of bleeding,
On the bathroom floor,
This.. This is an addiction.
This is an addiction, I scream,
Finally taking it for what it is as my friends,
My lover,
My mother,
All yell at me to put my blade down,
To lay down,
To breathe.
They scream at me
To end this seemingly endless cycle
That I’ve been going through
For a little over five years.
The nurse practitioner I saw the other day,
Told me,
“I want you to have a list
Of thirteen things
You can do before you resort
To cutting.”
And I want that to happen.
But this..
This is an addiction.
And it’s going to take a long time to recover.
So far,
I’ve managed to stop the police calls,
The hospital visits,
Some of the more larger issues.
The ones that leave me
worse off than where I started
To an extreme.
I’m still recovering.
I think I’m always going to be recovering,
I don’t think it’s ever gonna leave the back of my mind..
But this.. This is not an addiction.
This is recovery.
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.
In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.
In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.
The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."
In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.
I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.
To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
**graduated *** laude
with a PhD in madness,
practitioner of your
own philosophy as
a harbinger of doom,
tales of darkness where
the deck is always stacked,
what's the sense of light
to a harsh night
or spring's flourish
to winter's brashness,
you don't need to be
a rocket scientist
to diagnose absurdity**
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
One of the most humorous conditions that a creature could burden itself with is a somnambulant desire to be to it’s own liking .
Maxillary extrapolation although a positive political expectorant is likewise a practical partiality .
I prefer to be philanthropically phenological although rational impedance is my histophysiology . My present participle is practical pragmatism and tertiary transcendentalism . Xenoplasticly speaking I feel alone but plausibility is a probationer in reflective self awareness . Atrociously impetuous I proceeded amidst heinously horrendous heckledom . Adequate inflection is a relevant relative to retaliatory regression but I digress . Paraphernalia is a practitioner to plausibility’s cause and should be assimilated through cognizance not perfunctory preferentialism .
Hegelian humanitarianism must supersede political subterfugalism or all may be lost in quagmire .
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
I’ve a general practitioner, a psychiatrist and a psychologist
(who’s leaving but I’ll panic about that later)
I’m on 4 different psych meds
Adderall, XR 25mg P.O.
(So I can be motivated, focus and concentrate), Daily
Klonopin, 0.5mg P.O.
(For panic attacks, social anxiety, generalized anxiety), As needed
(Translation:Constantly)
Buspirone, 10mg P.O. (For depression and generalized anxiety),
3 times daily – Useless
Remeron, 15mg P.O. (For depression, anxiety and insomnia),
Daily, at night – Only helps you sleep
Even with all that, I can barely get out of bed in the morning,
coffee’s no help
I can’t really sleep much, waking times a night,
sleeping restlessly if at all
Going to class is a nerve wracking nightmare – as is going out –
but I do it anyways
A panic attack surrounded by people is better than
solitary madness and cabin fever
Like a slave, to a handful of bitter little pills just barely keeping you afloat, unable to hack it alone
While everyone else seemingly can push on through life without them
Falling behind, despite the stupid little pills
Watching as the world goes on around you, spinning sickeningly
While you wish desperately to be normal,
with a million colliding thoughts in your head
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Eleanor P. Carney sat with her legs folded,
Casually reading a catalogue
As she waited. Her mind drifted
Effortlessly away from Joe until:
"Come this way" said a voice dimmed,
In light of the current situation.
The click of Ellie's t-strap heels
Turned the heads of many
Beauty parlor goers, as she
Was lead to a back door.
A *** of boiling water hosted
Sharp things for slaughter.
"Now, I have to ask,
On account of virtue,
Do you really want to do this?"
The beauty practitioner who
Practiced more than beauty, stood in
The corner, tying an apron
around her thin waist.
Eleanor P. Carney shook her head,
And sat down on the
Cold counter knowing that
She would not regret this.
Ruth L. ****** struggled everyday
To find new ways to disgust herself,
But the lack Ms.Carney's
Shame and guilt would
Do just fine for today.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
I am man
Destroyer of worlds
Ask the survivors
Of the ant hill out back
I am man
Practitioner of violence
See for reference
My arsenal of Nerf weapons
I am man
Taker of life
My double bacon cheeseburger
A ****** trophy
I am man
Celebrator of brutality
I gotta go
The game is on
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
I read a story the other day.
I read the headline.
It said: There is no god and we are his prophets.
We drive slowly on Saturdays.
At night in our home there are noises,
the dull thumps of ghosts.
We used to comment. Now we rollover.
I wake and return the blankets I’ve stolen.
In the mornings there is music.
A kitchen dance of tip-toes and arms at war with air.
The new car with its heated seats.
There’s a pace I like.
It’s microwaved tea;
it’s 11:30 a.m.;
it’s one more chapter before.
I listen to you get ready,
a chorus of tubes uncapped
and capped, of hairdryers
plugged and unplugged.
You sing softly.
I hear this, too.
Beyond this house,
a brook, a mountain, a trout.
Distances mapped.
Plans drawn with
parallel lines, listless and drifting.
Within,
there is no god, and he is love,
and we are his prophets.
You are my practitioner.
And I, yours.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
Hello, you have reached your longtime downhome hometown Saint Swithin’s Family Medical Clinic now an outreach ministry of Consolidated #Jesus Industries Inc. where nobody knows you anymore and wouldn’t care if they did your health care is very important to us you are a valued customer our office hours are from 8 to 12 and 2 to 5 on alternate Mondays and 9-12 and 2 to 5 on Tuesdays and Thursday after Woodchuck Endangerment Awareness Day but before Greenpeace Day except when the latter falls on a Wednesday in which case our office hours are 2 to 5 only and on Saturday 8 to 12 if this is an outside pharmacy please dial X and follow the menu if this is a prescription refill please dial Y and follow the menu if this is to schedule an appointment please dial Z and remain on the line if this to reschedule an appointment dial A cubed and speak slowly when prompted to do so I’m sorry I didn’t quite get that would you like to try again I’m sorry I still didn’t get that if you would like to speak to an operator dial oh, I am sorry your time is expired please hang up and redial if you would like to speak with Dr. Name’s secretary please dial 3 if you would like to speak with Dr. Other Name’s secretary please dial 4 if you would like to talk with Nurse Practitioner Yet Another Name’s secretary please dial 5 if this is an emergency then please hang up and dial 911…
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:56 PM UTC
what i understand as a definition of
the word complex,
it requires a hyphen as a
pseudo conjunction, in that it
coordinates words in opposition,
which is why freud's right on the
money with the madonna-whore
complex, but completely bonkers
with his oedipal fetishes,
because oedipus is a complex in itself
that cannot be excavated
and theorised for the sake of a
analogue... that's a horrid plagiarism
that might plagiarise awry,
for all orthodox necessities:
a complex is aqua- -marine
aquamarine... but in terms of theory
it's evident that the hyphen usage
is still retained, before everything
goes **** up perfect *** **** of
compounding the two words like a german:
Fernmeldeverkehr (telecommunication),
der... 'nurse! pass the syllable scalpel!'
'herr doktor, der silbeskalpell.'
'ah scheiße, 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go:
fern' 'mel 'dever 'kehr.'
the operation was a success, apart from
the silbeskalpell being left in the patient's body;
and i never understood why people
expect you to talk to them face-to-face
like you're reading autocue, the minute
you talk imagining off empty space
to invent a new language of comfort
they equate you with autism...
i once had a glance at psychiatric notes
sent to the bureaucratic doctor (g.p. / general
practitioner)... psst... they only care
about whether:
a. you're able to keep eye contact
b. you're / you're not biting your nails...
but that's what you get, the welfare state
policy of funding distribution of the infamous
n.h.s. (national health service)...
****** by the cartesian dualism of splitting
mind from body like the brain is some
gooey porridge mixed with cornstarch for
thickness... only 0.6% of n.h.s. funding goes into
psychiatry... i'm guessing at least 1% goes into
prescriptions for pensioners demanding ******
i already told you, cats are ontologically autistic,
hence their appeal to autistic children,
or just anyone not really into leashes, being
tugged or tugging, come rain or shine, come
7am or 7pm... they can be so inanimate sometimes
that they blend in will flowers, and when awake,
yes, like plants doing the kayan lahwi tribe's
extending neck with rings thing... ah what's it called...
ah yes phototropism... take the rings off the neck
a million swans with broken necks.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
He would have been an artist
but that being was now lost
hidden beneath the folds of fleshy strata
hanging like a neurosis, soft as adipose
lost under his belly.
He may have been a father
but that too was lost under
the pendulous judgement of
his blunted dreaming state.
He could have been a sculptor
an artist as they would have said,
instead he now whittles archaic
spoons with which to sup from
his sad bucolic dreams.
In between aspirations, as a hobby,
he runs his fat fingers through women's
hair, a round eyed
would be Taoist, wending prayers
through lost valleys.
And for a living he pins tails
on donkeys calls himself an eastern
practitioner. A Zen mystic .
An acupuncturist.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens
my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes
me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.
My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she
popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter
and tears in equal measure,
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am
the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother
sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in
another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera
is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his
loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,
knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its
deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 5:48 AM UTC
Sleek dark hair
Highlights of auburn, color of fall
Stern lips
A look of austerity in the dark russet eye
Skin lighter than my own
The smaller wrist
Large eyes
Faint deepening crow's feet
Nursing knowledge
Small, short, slight, petite, and strong
Maternal vanguard
Matriarchal
Beautiful and earthly
Scorpionic elusiveness
Her unused canvas
Frequent Homegoods purchased
Shifts decor in the livingroom like a Feng Shui practitioner
Laughs at the absurdity of modern horror movies
Smells like bath wash and too much perfume
Smells of my childhood
Smells of my innocence
Paperbacks of Hugo and Austen in boxes in the basement
Paperbacks of The Symposium and a biography of Marx in the basement
Secretly likes to cook
Culinary explorer
Gastronomically open
Culinary door opener
Very little circle of friends
Outspoken
Austerity on the small mouth
Austerity in the small mouth
Conviction in her voice
Soft graphite in her voice
Has a lisp sometimes
The slight overbite(?)
Immigrant parent
Unnaturalized citizen
Reminds me of fall
Reminds me of everything
Reminds me of very little at once
Life-teacher, one of many
Protective
Over-protective
Pushy
The way her hand moves on her tablet
The way her voice sounded during a lecture when I was a child
The way she used to hug
Closet full of shoes and clothes she rummages through when she's going out
Meticulous cleaner
The way her voice sounded when she tried to make sense of me
The way her voice sounds
...
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
tripper
burnt out- an asphalt
space cadet,
a freak of nature your around
you addict
jet-setter
voyager globetrotter
you practitioner enthusiast
often injurious
to your sanity,
admit your habit
you hound you know you
are bound to be
blood smeared on I-75
someday.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
I am a practitioner of madness this month
so bless your bravery to vex me
if you want to see intellectual slaughter
it will be a gift and pleasure for me
more the better, for fear I do not have
not in this month of madness
Come swine drink my vintage wine
it maybe warm but I know you like it
then like a ***** give me more
of your unfounded slanders you *******
come dine with me
in my month of madness
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
I was a janitor
You, a nurse practitioner
I worked from nine to five
To keep you by my side
Then you got up and left
Was it something I said?
I’ll admit that I was wrong
If you’ll just come back, love
So I’ll be sweeping here
While fighting back these tears
Just keep doing my job
And not think about lost love
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC
The skilled user of words, the wizard conjurer that provoke your thoughts.
I ought to be sentenced to death.
For an enlightened mind such as mine for the crime of influencing young minds
You see the Government hate visionaries like me, so they call the disciplinary, to disrupt revolutionaries, COINTELPRO, look them up if you don’t know, for all you conspiracy theorist, I am the head of realist **** shot calling
You might as well call me Shon the abolitionist.
When it comes to such a wicked being such as me, they call to question my thought for knowledge and I tell them
As the practitioner of hard knocks, my quest for power is almost pestilent; people say knowledge is power
But what they don’t tell you, is power comes from applying the knowledge
To acknowledge the most dangerous man in the room isn’t the man with the gun nor the thirst for power
But the man in the shrouded darkness waiting to pounce, call me Rockefeller and Rothschild.
I am almost out of time but please forgive me, my mind sits in an higher dimension
My mentality is overpriced that’s why the naïve mind is as common as head lice
As I am the sole provider to the zeitgeist.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC
blow me,down, sue
even from the grave,
you suprise....
i open the door to a knock,
two delivery men.
one burly, one stout,
stand on the threshold.
with a letter and a box.
the letter, from your solicitor
said.....
this is your bequest to me....
okay, i got a box of stuff....
nice, but then i read more...
you have bequeathed to me, your office, contents.
entire and intact....
the delivery men ask me where i want it put...
i say in the shed out the back
there....
so now an hour later...
33 boxes , computer, desk office chair, three foot mask
making block, and various
posters, painting prints and
other items of theatre practitioner's paraphenalia,
sit in piles,
ordered and hapahazard,
in amongst ben's benches, tools and lathes.
and me,
i sit in, the old red leatherete, institutional,
easy chair,
holding the sack of paper and teabag infused garbage,
that came with your office.
entire and intact...
i am both laughing,
at this absurdity
and sobbing at the fact....
that this office,
will evermore,
not have,
the integeral piece,
that makes it whole,
....entire and intact...
for you my friend
....are gone
and not ever....
coming back.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
haint gonna mock ridiculous science
asper to be bled
dark practices to leech out mailer daemons,
not so laughable nor in cred
double, when oppressed diabolical dread
oompah loompah fealty l'chaim fled
as hand grenades explode within my head
mettlesome monsters
make mercuric chrome dome feel like a led
zeppelin with fractured stairway to heaven in stead...
delivers me zombies, where angels fear to tread
cuz, the devil and psyche did wed
shotgun Swedish crow did house mafia style
wrenched, wrested wretched
mental state most intense (no croc) dial
shattered, slewed, splintered sanity,
thus practitioner with "FAKE" know how aisle
apprentice Aunt Roadie,
who will skewer me evil spirits den da deuce
till I beak home one sacrificed overly cooked goose
a burnt offering shish kabob
no longer able to raise cane on the loose
like a red bull
rocky on the shoals of a frantically angry moose
livid with rage
(akin to diary of mad a housewife)
entropy written, where death will be only truce
pyromaniac qua ramshackle shanty (tinderbox)
unleashes wicked zeal
hellacious incendiary juiced ride
up plies noisome rubbery odor,
sans hot wheel
along the outer limits of functionality explosions
precipitate like drops of molten steel
routing hunger, searing nostrils,
tearing tenuous fragile tethered tendrils
self cannibalizing via tooth and nine inch nail
linkedin with nauseousness as thine meal
exemplary asper full blown panic attack
lodged within mine genetic blooper print deal.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
It's a habit forming activity of the new age,
Science can't even explain the ideas floating in teenage brain.
Like a super nova blasting in the sky,
a mind so random each and every time.
Thin slicing this warped mind,
A figure drinking wine in a lime light,
never ever ask a question from your past,
never ever create a formula that won't last.
I am a practitioner of an art you'll never see in a museum,
you'll never see with your eyes.
I am a deaf musician using deception and rhymes,
Even I. . .
Even I. . .
can dream if I go blind.
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 3:50 AM UTC
Broken,
she tied her veins in knots;
her heart, she tore
until it gasped with every beat;
she lined her corneas
with her fingers; she wrote
until they were too afraid,
too dry,
to leak anymore.
She used her wrists like a diary,
writing away all the pain
—or so she thought—
for her limbs were haunted
by a girl of the past
—a ghost
whom her pupils still cannot separate
the rods and cones
to discern as herself.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
Paradigm. Bejeweled like a Russian Easter Egg Awaiting its Exploding
Dressed in the Decision of its own Light
Giving up Nothing, Surrendering Everything
This is a WILL to the End. Perseus.
What book is this?
Practitioner Betrayal of Son Unrisen
Yours is a Mystery Unfound
Until NOW
Shame of the Pretending, growing more Obvious each day
Terrified of the Becoming.
Leadership of the Appetite,
dining on its own creations
In my World we call that Cannibalism.
Miracle! one peace is Saved….
Once Shaken Crown of FAITH NOW REALIZED
No Heartache in the afterlife of Witnessing
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Solitioner, Soliloquy, Silence.
Petitioner, "Papers please", Paint,
Take your pick.
Get high, Get drunk,
But don't, That's ******
Get in love, Make some babies,
Don't. That's *******
Have fun.
Yeah.
Have fun.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC