"psychiatrist" poems
My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,
but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.
She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,
someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.
22.8k
You wake up each morning feeling like you don't fit in
you believe no one really understands you
half of you is missing from the world
people find you weird and strange
you find them boring.
You're not alone
You don't have many friends
you never go to parties
a psychiatrist would probably lock you away
you feel lonely surrounded by billions
you feel you will die with no one in your life
You're not alone
It doesn't matter what others think
it doesn't matter if no one gets you
because my friend
you're not alone
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
from blank gun silencer - 1991
6.9k
i am tired of talking to adults no i do not want to see a dermatologist or a psychologist or a psychiatrist or a nurse no school counselor i am definitely not having suicidal thoughts and no doctor i do not want to talk about the results of my mental health survey. of course dr. cook i am totally open to the idea of taking an antidepressant dear god i am tired of talking to adults do not want to be diagnosed i do not want to talk about it stop worrying about me, no, 'i am not depressed,' this is my life so thank you for not making me sign a life pact but leave me alone i am not going to cry in front of another strange adult. do not diagnose me. all i want is to be normal, i am tired of the pills. i am done with talking to adults
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
well...
she didn't want me...
because i didn't
want to do **** with her...
and because i cooked
better than her;
or as one homosexual said:
**** *** isn't really the norm
in homosexuality,
most **** *** takes place
between heterosexual couples;
maybe i just don't feel
like talking about curtains
and napkins growing
old in front of a television screen?
i think it's called companionship,
without the authority brigade to
get alimony and other stipends
for a degree designating milking-it...
as might require a woman shackling
a partner with a few witnesses,
like priest, lawyer... psychiatrist;
god they're scared... they don't even
fear murdering you,
and when they try to, they just
bellow out: 'my brother is dead!
my brother is dead!' no, he's alive,
he should have been dead 8 years ago,
but you miscalculated;
they're just scared of something
that doesn't resemble a cage,
as every housewife might tell you:
a duck in a cage kept for petting
rather than sloth for quickened
fattening and eating will
make the one eating it loose the plot...
the duck will just pretend to be stupid.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
Go to class, Grace.
Take your medication, Grace.
Learn to deal with your emotions, Grace.
Try to stay positive and it will all get better, Grace.
Why aren't you trying hard enough, Grace?
Why are you so quiet, Grace?
What's wrong, Grace?
I do everything. I call a psychiatrist, I take my medication, I try to hold myself together and be positive and strong and admirable. I do everything a little good girl should do. I don't listen to impulses, I stay quiet until I can't help but cry, I hold myself by threads until I can't hold on anymore.
Obviously I'm not trying hard enough. Obviously I'm being melodramatic. Obviously this is my fault.
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
What we have is nuts, crazy, mad
But it's just that
I like to laugh instead of being sad
I like to giggle so people know I'm not that bad
Mr.J knows that
He gets what they don't
He sees what they wouldn't
When I'm with him I feel warm
Not alone
I'm damaged but so is he
I find it hard to manage
But not with him
You see?
Do you see he just gets me?
My 'Puddin makes me happy
Even tho I'm the baddest bady
We're meant to be
Sometime we paint white roses red
Each shade from a different person head
Don't look at me
Or you'll lay in your dead bed
Don't dream
Dream is a killer sometimes we get drunk with a blue caterpillar
He's peeling the skin of my face
Cause I really hate being safe
The normals they make me afraid
The crazies they make me feels safe
I'm nuts baby I'm mad
The craziest friend that you ever had
You think I'm ******
You think I'm gone
Tell the psychiatrist something is wrong
Over the bend entirely bonkers
He likes me best when I'm of my rocker
Tell you a secret I'm not alarmed
So what if I'm crazy... all the best people are
He thinks I'm crazy
He thinks I'm gone
I think he's crazy to
I know he's gone
That's probably the reason that we get along
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 5:11 AM UTC
She always burned her
Barbie dolls after she cut
All the hair of that plastic,
Magic perfect blonde ****
She was 11 and had just
Always hated how all
Her family and friends kept
On giving her a doll
That was perfect and had all
And she just couldn't see
The relevance and the elephant
In the room is insecurity
So at 11 she Cant see what she is
but what she is not
her imperfections made her check
If Barbies got what she got
But Barbie did not barbies
perky with both ***** and ****
Her legs don't grow hair
And she don't need cover up
And her short legs look
Nothing like barbies do
Even her *** and
Thighs are all proportioned too
Fit her spectacular body's frame
that frames her reflexion
with the blame to detain
what remained as complexion
Of her oily pimpled skin that
Is too fair and needs a tan
And living up to all that not to
Mention a corvette and a man
That's why Barbie hangs across
Her closet where her mom
Saw the Barbie dolls She hung
by the neck yelling what's wrong
butShe just masks how she
felt so a head doctor was
a psychiatrist who sighed
A bit but had sided with her cause
She was an ugly duckling herself
That Never grew to be pretty
But the city has no pitty for no
Pretty so best you be witty
And told her to keep with the
hate she now held for Barbie
and before She left the doctor said
**** a corvette get a Ferrari
So She left happy but hardly
Cured of her obsession
Over beauty and style,
With a classy shoe collection
But she is now only 11
And reassures herself that she
Is no barbie and would repeat
barbies not prettier than me, and
Til she believes it she still burns them
To hang them soar
Shows a mirror to the bald barbie so
She knows she's not pretty no more
See what its like to feel too short
as She cuts at the knee
She says" i can be more
like Barbie if she's more like me"
Wheres obese Barbie,
or Immigrant Barbie from far
Black haired or short haired Barbie
Who's bus pass is her car
How about welfare Barbie or
realistic Barbie anything but
A smooth long haired long legged
Perfect shaped ***** and ****
With Friggin hips child birth was
Not made for and why
She asks Can't barbie have flaws so
I can pause the feeling that I
Will fail before I try if I
Am expected to be
So beautiful and Barbie never talks
No wonder kens easy to please
the message seems look pretty and
Dont talks all u need
So she hangs them violently
but quietly wishing they would bleed
But as she gets older shell
Like herself more and won't dwell
That god didn't make her a Barbie
maybe hes not as good as matel.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.
I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.
It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-
I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends ...
In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.
When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.
If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.
That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.
4.5k
The cars roll up and come to a stop
You jump onboard thinking this rocks
But the non-stop ride has only just begun
Before long you’re up and in rages again
Things fly through the air and break on the wall
You’re pushing and fighting and out of control
Then you run to your room and lock yourself in
Crying and shaking till your asleep yet again
You wake from your sleep but you haven’t a clue
You really don’t know why things are askew
Another day and what will it bring
Today the rollercoaster is on a downhill swing
You’re sad and mad and hating the world
There is no one to love and no one who cares
Forget the friends and forget the fun
You lay in your bed wishing you were gone
I tell you I love you and you say it’s not true
You’re the love of my life what can I do
Day after day the ride starts again
The only change is the curves and the spins
We have tried all the medicines but to no avail
We have gone to the psychiatrist but she is no help
I understand your thinking son but what can I do
We have tried so many things and yet I haven’t a clue
You beg me to **** you and to make it all stop
I want it to end but your request I can not
Please don’t give in to this terrible thing
Stay with me a while longer till I find you again
The rollercoaster will someday jump the track
And you will be free from the ride at last.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
We kissed so much
I would come home hiding my swollen lips.
And you sat with me for my first psychiatrist appointment,
and told me everything was going to be okay.
So i engulfed myself in you,
and ended up drowning.
A simple chemical imbalance was too ****** up for you.
I would get home and the only things swollen were my eyes.
Why would you tell me you would teach me how to swim,
and then hold my head under the water?
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.
It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.
An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.
You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.
Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.
You are not fit
To analyse me.
You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.
Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.
I could have you hung.
But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
i smoke cigarettees too **** much.
this is how you know nothing original will be said in this poem.
i use cigarettes as a social crutch.
i don't know about you
but when i'm in the mood to be honest
i'll tell you
i smoke cigarettes because
i want to be 'cool'.
because let's be honest:
i can't think of
a poet
a musician
an actor
an olympic swimmer
a hockey player
a president
a priest
a ****
a serial killer
or a psychiatrist
that's worth mentioning
that did not smoke
yes, i know you can
and go ahead,
but let me first
make a point instead
let me be honest,
if i can smoke a cigarette
and maybe be alone for
5.75 minutes
then maybe
a thought will occur to me
something outside this ******** world
and it will be good enough to write down,
just maybe.
let me be honest
i don't need you
with your judgemental eyes
and your cursory glances
walk away from me
at a party
i don't miss you
i am with her.
i garauntee if you asked
Whitman
Hemmingway
Freud
Phelps
Obama
about their actual relationship with smoking tobacco
they would have similiar descriptions.
but go ahead, tell me
about the hazardous effects of cigarettes
let's talk about the cancer
and the tar
and the disgusting phlem
that i will constantly have to eject
from my throat-hole
when i'm fifty.
go ahead, tell me about
******* people over
and ripping their minds out
and the sickness
and the disease
and how it's all so wrong.
it's as amusing to me as it is to you.
Mcdonald's will **** you.
Pall Mall will **** me.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
A hug is so rare
The kind that can make you smile
And make you feel safe.
When I open up my thoughts and confide in you,
I'm not looking for a solution,
Or for anyone to fix me
I'm looking for a hug.
Because like you said
You're not my psychiatrist
Not my husband
You're just a boy.
And boys will come and go
None of them can fix me
I have to fix me
But all I wanted was a hug
Wanted to feel safe
Wanted to know you cared
But if you can't do that
Than I guess this is where we must part
And I will miss you.
I will miss dancing in your basement
Playing with your gecko
Listening to your thoughts
And what you have to say
Sometimes you don't make sense
But that's okay because it makes sense to you
And if you need someone to listen
I'll be here
And if you ever need a hug
I guess I'll show you the compassion
That you couldn't show me
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
but that handle was made for his hand
hand - handle
handle - hand
the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade...
the blade was still naked. He couldn't let
the blade naked
It wasn't fair
"So that's why you stabbed your
mommy then?" the psychiatrist asked him.
"Yes," he said.
"The knife is more important
to you than mommy?"
"The knife listens. Mommy doesn't."
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.
Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.
Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.
2.9k
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something
i should already know.
and when she says it,
the shift inside me is something i wish i could compare
to the grinding of tectonic plates,
if only i were strong enough to bring about an earthquake.
but since i am a stranger even to aftershocks,
i keep quiet.
my earthquake is stillborn,
expressed instead as a nod,
as a chewing of the lip,
as a silent, compliant “mhm.”
and the urge that nestles itself at the pit of my stomach
is not an urge to disagree;
it is an urge to forget.
because my psychiatrist tells me i have holes in me.
she says it as though it is something i should already know,
and she says it in a way that is not meant to make me feel incomplete,
but it is a way that still does,
and if i can forget this,
even for a moment,
i can forget that i am not okay.
i do not like not being okay;
i do not like having problems,
and my psychiatrist,
she tells me i have holes in me and she says it
as though it is a problem.
and so begins a slow disintegration:
i become but a bearer of problems,
a garden growing only weeds —
something in need of fixing.
i see myself a war-torn landscape,
dry and cracked and lacking life.
i see myself the kind of ground you step on and say,
“remember when things used to grow here?
remember when it used to be green?”
i am still trying to be green,
always trying to be green,
but my psychiatrist tells me
i have holes in me,
and suddenly green becomes a color i will never know how to paint.
outside my psychiatrist’s office,
on the wall of the waiting room,
there is a painting of flowers —
irises and a geranium —
and the leaves, i know, are supposed to be green,
but the paint is old and faded
and they don’t look it.
and for a moment,
i think
that maybe,
whether iris
or geranium
or boy riddled with holes,
maybe it is possible to bloom
even if you are not green.
(a.m.)
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
She always taps the railings when she walks along the street
No matter the weather, her mood, if she’s early or late
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap, and repeat.
It’s a simple and quiet lived life to the beat
Of her fears, her obsessively organized fate
She always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
It helps her feel calm; to tap makes the walk neat,
Step twice near the fountain and jump over the grate
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap and repeat.
Do her neighbors peek, do they point, do they bleat
About the girl who’s got rhythm tied into her fate?
She always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
And her parents, do they not fear for her feet
And her tapping obsession, psychiatrist’s bait
It goes tap, tap step tap, step tap tap and repeat.
But it’s hers, her own comforting lullaby sweet
It protects her from bombs, famine and food past it’s due-date
So she always taps the railings when she walks down the street.
She goes tap. Tap step tap. Step tap tap. And repeat.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
The scientist-psychiatrist
the psychologic sociologist
has proved with his statistics
and his data-riddled literates
that nothing will be crippled
if they sweep the city clean
if they slay not only Tybalt
but the whole Verona scene
so they ****** it from our hands
from our brains and those to come
as the Ravens sear across the lands
and bindings come undone
They watch the pages flitter by
and cackle with delight
as the populace of fiction
by their hands is ripped alight
The licking of the laces
by the hungry tongues of flame
will ravage on the characters
you've come to know by name
Montag barrels forth and finds
the Fahrenheit has risen
Hester screams and claws her mind
out of this hellish prison
and Dorian will clamber up
to sit atop the pile
and weep for Pictures yet to sup
upon his looks and guile
And you'll watch as they obliterate
the city from within
de-storying our Paradise
so it won't be Lost again.
But I, Calpurnia? I warned you
that the fiery clouds would rain
I told you all, fictitious youth,
but you called me insane.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
A Bird, which will be of the age
is not good enough, | is or will be;
In order to be able to be controlled;
on behalf of the deaths of so many,
unique in the city,
In particular, the Church is the Church
by virtue of the form of the the fire in the green stars;
standardized, Mary was born on the bed
of Allah's Goat, Lord, this is my time,
The blood; head,
American adulterers here are golden
United Nations members Software
In the history of the sport doctor,
Another item that is contrary to God's,
Its features contained in the nutrition and diet,
literary experts thinking Igor
the name of the topic that is the true spirit
of Greek and Latin; The name of the old | one
together with its own nature; Brazil in the news,
and for the first time; Exercises early
in the morning; There is a clean slate
blind blind; Sunscreen is the rallying cry
on Wall Street because heat and women
do not produce Alchemy; Education
| changes to the garden and changes his focus
to focus on the Russian psychiatrist | |
whose Heroes are adults;
with Jews, all are members of holes
At the entrance to the project the green tea tree
in front of the French school in Virginia
is another; ||full of the country I went with him
to the next town,
where Black Hill was available,
free as smoke, Regards from the sand
at the beach; After watching the food
and Hills and Hills and Hills of *******
firings and labor unrest, the characters,
you'll cry, face south, a wise driver || | |
And it was the attacks of the servants,
Marcus picked the best fights;
Johnny Angel pushing her on her stomach
in Marcus's Museum of America
in England, boughs and leaves falling
About Einstein's wife's head; The Entire |
Beginner's football club piles on top
of the screaming woman
understandably horrifying for those
not involved, lest what is defined
in the term evil, is the same ******
of the trees; The happy city working
on the beach; Growing up I began
to stroll the paradisiacal part of the city.
The girl's glory bore witness
to ligroàkọsílẹ's second wife,
when the bomb hit the covers of adultery;
Ever trusting, the fornicators
taking the oil to the women,
Since in seeking you, I will see to it:
that they speak |||||
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
*What is a family?
A group of people that uncannily
look, sound and act as one?
A shared DNA strand?
A whole of many parts?
A scientist may have the answer.
A psychiatrist, a therapist, an evolutionist.
But, my theory is this:
a family, hurts, cries, argues and defies
those who want to tear them apart.
Bloodlines, evolution it's in the mix
but, family hurts, loves, hates and
forgives in equal measure.
Hurt one of us, hurt us all.
Hurt us and I as elder sister will pay you a call*
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC