"prefrontal" poems
he's
tripping, but not
coerced by gravity;
rather a Molotov cocktail of
endorphins lobbed straight at his
prefrontal cortex.
some find this
distasteful,
some find it
deplorable;
god help me,
I find it adorable.
(it's the only time he'll
admit he loves me)
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
nineteen
the age of uncertainty
underdeveloped prefrontal cortex
development of morality
nineteen
inside, still a child
outside fully pubescent
on your own
nineteen
too young for the real thing
but slowly learning the landscape
to the world of adulthood
nineteen
the age of beauty
blossoming realizations
living
nineteen
the worlds not what it seems
experience things in a new way
that you never though existed
nineteen
the peak of psychological disorders
anxiety and depression
heartache
fear, instability
and restlessness
nineteen
last year as a teen
a year filled with mystery
and hope
life
love
not a breath wasted
if you know how,
keep breathing
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage One.
The first time you appeared,
you filled my brain with affection,
that felt as if it were like oxygen,
a necessity for my survival.
You came on to me,
fast and overpowering,
feelings I hadn’t felt before,
you and only you is what I grasp onto.
I can’t eat but slowly you consume me.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage Two.
I like turns into I love,
my affection for you is growing like a sponge,
soaking up every bit you can give to me.
Little did I know you were a poisonous being,
embedding yourself into my brain you ***** wretch,
clouding my emotions by threading my prefrontal cortex with detrimental lies.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage Three.
The symptoms are there,
yelling loud and clear like an angry father,
when curfew wasn’t met.
My reality becomes evident when I see your hand in hers,
I become trapped in an ache that I can internally feel,
and that others can physically see in my figure.
I decide to cut you out like a surgeon
and try to mend the pieces that are severed.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Stage Four.
I try to heal but it seems to be no use,
the ache persists not only in my head,
but has spread to my heart.
My body is conquered by chemical reactions like chemotherapy,
trying to wipe out the memories we have created and disease you are to me.
But still my body, my soul is weak and fragile
like a dry leaf in autumn,
crumbling,
only after time will it be able to remise.
Our love is like a cancer.
I’m fighting for my life again.
Remission.
You are vacant from me,
but you will always linger.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Pharmaceutical angels hover
in the space above my sleeping head
chanting slogans
they have been paid
to whisper in my ear.
“Keep it clean with Terbenafine.”
“You can fly on Abilify.”
“Everyone’s lean on Levothyroxine.”
“Go on a roll with Anastrazole.”
“You’ll get a thrill from Lisinopril.”
“There ain’t no reputin’ the bliss of Welbutrin.”
“Don’t be a geek. Take Pristiq.”
“Go far on Adderall XR.”
“if you want to rate, take Cypionate.”
I wake with a jolt
the neurons of my prefrontal cortex
already firing like machine guns of craving
for the treasure in my medicine chest
and I know everything is going to be fine,
just fine.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Standing on my head to rid myself of this soul-phlebitis
An old hobo train jumper trick apparently
All that blood rushing to my previously empty head
Filling, pooling graciously flow
(Don't we all know, there's nowhere to go but up)
Abruptly fall head first lurching, crunch
To the cold brittle hardwood boards of nuns in our parent's youth
Creaking (they whip us good)
Is this ink sunken in skin to be yer biggest regret?
What can pain do for you?
Connecting the mind and body
Cingulate gyrus integrating
reptilian brain vagus nerve body influence with higher
Social functioning
ugh when really it's all a big joke
and the sad clown laughing at the universe
is me and i am god and god,
god he weeps
Breeding consciousness, somatosensory convergence
You make my prefrontal cortex sick
Subsequent serotonin stomach butterflies
The prescience of a dozen acid trip candy flips
Tomorrow's 500 micrograms of blissful gut
Awareness in bloom
Home, where's home for the moment?
Not sure, asking, looking
And questing to find o yes and where to go and where to stay
And with whom and Why
Questions called to no one and nothing (but the sea)
That can't hear me
As if Nietzsche's 'void' is staring back
EAT ME THEN DAMNABLE VOID
I cry
For
What pain is there in true madness,
sick little toy words
sick little boy slurs
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
my hair is laced with flowers and my mind has gone. i've spent so much time trying to turn pollen into pixie dust, and one day, as i was singing nursery rhymes, i swear the butterflies led me somewhere like my home.
my heart is heavy enough to restrict me from flying.
bathtub full of flowers, mind filled with honey, honey, honey.
peter pan will grow up to be an old man working a desk job, and hamlet ends up in a place between the depths of heaven and hell. even god doesn't know what to do with them anymore. he's got no clue for me either for my mind has gone.
white gown and angelic smile, i'll sing to you until you remember.
forever means nothing if you just age until you're a particle of dust.
i have remembrances of you, remnants of you. they're tattooed to my prefrontal cortex, and they cloud my judgement. my mind has gone. love isn't real, but i see signs anywhere i look, and they're singing nursery rhymes.
my fingers start to prune, and i duck my head under the water.
it's only for a while, now. father i won't be long.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 6:18 PM UTC
The exact representation of deception is likened to a delusional cognition which tunnels its way through craggy mountain ecosystems of the prefrontal cortex.
The impairment of your executive functioning is evident, oh grandiose master of self-aggrandisement.
It is now 04.20hrs in the Britannic pastures where desert storms are a figment of extravagant wishes to be recognised.
Although it is charmingly magical to harken to your lunacy, it is mercenary of the battalions to fathom the pathology of your blatant insignificance within the universe of vain imaginations.
Hereford is the base of winning, if you are brazen enough to engage with the feat.
Selah, my psychotic expression of wishful psychopathy.
One more thing: please check your spelling.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
the factory workers of my prefrontal cortex
are on a raucous strike because,
the train chugging them to lunch breaks at my amygdala
has been broken down for days.
and the now strained relay of packets of faxes from this neuron
to the one all the way south on Abbey Lane,
is creating untold pressure for Wernicke -
so forgive me if i ask you to rephrase.
despite the absent hoarded salivating mouths,
the deli in my amygdala keeps on producing
thousands of ******* italian subs,
so now the place floods with grease-sweat from old meat
that would make a carnivore remit...
and it's seeping, leaking poison to Broca,
who is now refusing to explain herself
to the confused face projected on my retina's blurred screen.
the mitochondria housed in my somatasensory
are all comatose from last night's debauchery.
so everything is still,
numb to the touch
blank on the face
dead in the eyes -
unaware of the incessant twitching
that's rolling through my joints, muscles, skin, sore red thighs.
every nucleus of every cell
restarting again, again, again,
but rebooting isn't clearing the glitch in the system.
so just lie here with me,
broken machine to broken machine -
our hearts still glisten.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Just a small scrape
On the prefrontal cortex
Just a small ****
With prefrontal latex.
A maze learned latent
You always said I wasn't patient.
A black river
A moon shivering sliver
Of guiding yellow
Take every large thing
Burn it til it's mellow.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
I am waiting for the day
When technology catches up with imagination.
When I will be able
To sort your chemical composition.
To breach your prefrontal cortex.
To purge out your ego.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
It is a feeling always there, tangible in my sleep
entangles much as I weep, wings struggling to fleet
painful vibrancy, scars with red splatters
meaningful as laying under the stars chatter
sublime as deep orange sunsets in warm sand
with friends listening to our favorite bands
lodged in deep in the prefrontal cortex
a reward craved becoming so far fetched
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
It is a feeling always there, tangible in my sleep
entangles much as I weep, wings struggling to fleet
painful vibrancy, scars with red splatters
meaningful as laying under the stars chatter
sublime as deep orange sunsets in warm sand
with friends listening to our favorite bands
lodged in deep in the prefrontal cortex
a reward craved becoming so far fetched
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Intimacy is a hell of drug;
When I see you peripherally,
My thoughts are done.
The way light hits you
Just makes me nervous,
Bouncing ‘bout in my retinas,
Mixin’ with spirits.
Which, you might say,
Are oppressing my brain,
But I’ll misattribute you
All night and day.
Takin’ that serotonin,
Puttin’ it in your name,
As you run your fingers
Down my face.
Because, these impulses
Are shootin’ through me,
Driving my prefrontal insane.
I try to regulate feelings
That have no name.
I want you tactily, in-fact-ly
I want your intimacy,
‘Cause if you’re into me,
I want that dopamine.
On oxytocin, I’m choking,
These emotions, are roping,
Like I just overdosed
And am dangling,
Floating.
So if you’re itching,
I’ll fill your prescription.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
5 months ago
I discovered I had cptsd-
I have a new name to claim and to become accustomed to.
my mind is wired weird now.
and I can't blame these happenings
on chemical imbalance anymore
this true has held my throat shut.
Everything I knew about myself vanished,
but everything I knew about myself now made sense.
Every step forward was inside of quick sand.
Every step out of it was dragging around *****
My mind was sheet white and clean slate.
These triggers always align my eye sight
even words can engrave themselves
inside of my head-space.
I am everywhere at once.
Here's the thing,
my prefrontal cortex is stunted
and it's all my childhood's fault.
I would hold resentment or place the blame
on my alcoholic father, or on my abuser-
but I don't have the time or the patience
to entertain anger.
So instead I am sad.
Grudges have been my calling card
since birth and I'm tired
of wearing them like a scarlet letter.
A giant red stain, but in my eyes
and on my face,
everyone knows I am damaged
everyone knows I am deranged.
I walk on spiders
trying not to squish them
knowing **** well,
they could **** me if they wanted.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC
There are bees in my brain again.
All that's in my eardrums is the
picking,
gnawing,
chewing;
the incessant buzzing of their wings beating against my prefrontal cortex.
I can hear them working away, relentlessly, day&night;,
trying to make a home for themselves.
A hive in my head.
They have taken up residence.
They are quite comfortable.
I imagine their tiny bee legs mixing a golden, syrupysweet substance.
Thoraxes and abdomens dancing a little bee dance on my brainstem,
happily humming,
poised to pour the poison.
The sauce saturates my cerebrum.
Thickerthanhoney...molasses.
It weighs me down--adheres me to the ground.
Now I am suspended in a tub of the suffocating stuff.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
I ran through a field of flowers turned
upside down like an hourglass with
sand falling through the sky attracted
to magnetic butterflies that vibrate
with new technology and take off like
spaceships taking off their clothes
like the earth's gravity underneath the
acid rain on the prefrontal cortex
of your left side brain, a body the breaks
to be eaten like bread drinking wine
in bed, the very first sound you ever said
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
The heart beats;
The blood circulates;
The cells receive their required oxygen;
The breathing is sharp and rushed;
The shaking hands and fingers fumble with the packaging,
Nearly spilling the invaluable contents;
The arm is wrapped with a belt to cause the veins to rise,
and await the needle;
The parlous thoughts and feelings of discomfort begin to dissipate
as the lighter heats the spoon.
The skin pulsates and the muscles ripple under the point of the needle;
The natural reflexes of the body try to pull away from the pain;
The prefrontal cortex allows the will to keep the arm steady
and the determination to continue pressing;
The skin breaks and the needle slides into the vein
As the thumb plunges the plunger.
A warm, rushing sensation travels up the arm;
The mouth curls into a smile,
the eyes crinkling at the edges;
With a sigh of relief the needle is pulled from the vein;
The syringe drops to the stained carpet below;
A hot trickle of blood runs from the crook of the arm;
All the muscles relax,
sofa and body now one.
A wave of euphoria sweeps the body
and the mind;
The voice of God reverberates around the room,
revealing the secret to eternal life
and the meaning of everything.
The heart stops beating.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
Waste colors on me
canvas with a hole
Prefrontal cortex
Unplugged
Pulled the last thread
Unravel
Travel through time
A nomad girl.
Smoke from the ashes:
A beautiful curl
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
S-P-A-R-T-A-N-S
this chant has been
emblazoned on your prefrontal cortex for
years yet, and you'll bear it
upon your chest for years yet and
yet: you aren't certain
what it's all meant, whether it's been
Worth Your Time
and in this way, cheerleading has become
stand-in for
every boy who's let you down
month after month after month.
too bad you can't
unlearn their habits or
unfire the synapses they triggered;
too bad you can't
hop in a delorean to
unwind the time you spent with them.
but if you could:
would you?
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw
(less concerned about being fair versus
abominable, irrevocable, and execrable
unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & *****
cabinet of high priests,
sans spelling chieftains ready to claw
your person to bits,
and they presage remote clemency
which decision told, when Jeff Sessions
decides final punishment to draw
now, (see excerpted lines
visited with glaring flaw
"Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh"
where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
and drawbacks, required a secret char),...
intimates a "hee haw"
and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches
square at yar triangular jaw
YES, on account misspelling,
whence Grammarian Jude Law
at the least aims (to topple a prospective
title of eminence grise), banning access
to such undeserved
catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch
laughing while ja plaintively call for maw
**** Oxford English Dictionary - but naw
can do, and hence paw
mister trumpeting
"FAKE" wordsmith raw
flesh will turn into....
unreadable print until closing text
that elaborates how holiness felt vexed.
To ye (a freshly minted scalawag),
these 20/20 eyes bulged agog
while steaming with invective
at what attempted
to pass as sacred poetic blog
when thee (Matthew Scott Harris),
now pronounced, an illiterate,
immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%∑
with a severe cerebral clog
(meaning prefrontal lobotomy
not out of the question),
you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog
(my humble apologies to canines),
less deserving than being
whipped near death's doorstep flog
after henchmen (strongly
resembling Alaskan BullWorms
guarding this royal hutch,
herein Cupertino, California.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
It's global,
it's gotta be.
A prefrontal lobotomy,
all I can see is electric,
eclectic tastes, wasting away in the urgency of this ****** surgery.
All that I am is s.p.a.m.
Superficially
possibly
a
man.
Send in the volts and let me drive,
but something tells me, that in coasting I'm not really alive.
more electricity,pity the grid under which I have hid and played dice with the demons,inoculating myself against the woes of this world,
it's all global.
Tear drops like rain and in comatose again I throw a double four,
Eight like the eight ball and rolling as I fall under the knife.
Life,
give me a break.
You take what I ain't got and that's not a big deal,but get real,what I ain't got is all I have got and you still take the lot.
Send in the amps',
let me curl up in the cramps of electric,slick on the oil,put my brains on to boil,let me forget all I know and let's get on with the show.
In the surge of brain blitz when my head's blown to bits and they start to remold me,fold up my history and remake my memory,
all I can see is electric.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
Write down.
seal up.
--canned jars of word preservatives
saved until years of dust pile
memory drippings into prefrontal stalagmites;
a child's curiosity.
-- Reach maturity
all of the sudden it's ready to open
mild fermentation.
analytical tongues criticize and patronize that
I am not the right size
Demand and detention coincide degrees and shatter ice well long lived, layered and taught
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
I never called her by name
In fact,
the last time I said 'darling' to her face
was 10 nameless years ago
when I misused her
like a habit;
And now I can't even remember how
her ***** looked like,
although it was the centre of my concern,
and her ******* are now bereft
of that exclusive bounce,
as perfect as they were...
I just about recall her stomach,
I see it now as an inverted bathtub..
After three years of haughty pull-outs
I got pregnant
at a 5-star hotel in Turkey;
there wasn't much discussion,
the first adult decision that came my way
felt formal,
It did trouble me a little how dry
and ready
was her 'No.'
It felt like luck that I concurred;
And though I keep forgetting more and more
I can't forgive her
for not being delusional enough in my regard
the same way that I am now of her,
for she spoke like a fish
and she ****** like a log,
but still she clogs my veins
and reigns over my sleep.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC