"psychologists" poems
This is a tribute. A goodbye letter, whatever you wanna call it. A thank you, I guess. Thankyou for saving me. Thank you for keeping me. Thank you for watching over me and teaching me and preaching to me and thankyou, thankyou, thankyou for making me see that I was gifted with a life. This is for you. Everything I do, everything I write, everything I say, is for you.
One month ago tomorrow, you died.
One month ago tomorrow, I checked my email expecting to find some spam mail and a few notifications about something I didn't really care about, maybe even a reply from that person I emailed a while ago.
One month ago tomorrow, I checked my email and found an email from your mom saying that you were so sorry, so so sorry, but that you had passed.
One month ago tomorrow, I collapsed on the floor and mourned for the loss of my best friend, my soul mate.
One month ago the day after tomorrow, I walked into school and I kept my cool but I saw you there in front of me. I could put you there and I could see you and I could hear you and you haunted me and my friends all said "You're different."
That day, I had an anxiety attack and went home because I COULDN'T handle it.
Tomorrow, I will walk into school and I will keep my cool but inside I will be dying and sobbing and weeping and mourning for the loss of you.
Tomorrow, I will sit in the same place I did one month ago the day after tomorrow and stare into nothing and see you and hear you and smell you and my friends will say "you're different".
Tomorrow, I might have an anxiety attack. I might go home but I will try not to. I CAN handle it.
When we first met, you told me your worst fear was that you were afraid to die.
3 months ago, you slit your wrists and by the time you realised what you were doing and sane enough to stop you tried to save yourself.
You succeeded.
You got better.
1 month ago tomorrow, you died of natural causes.
We were supposed to become psychologists together and go to New York and study at the same university and open a private practice, where did that end up at?
Goodbye, and thank you, and I'm sorry I didn't say I love you enough, and I'm sorry I didn't take more pictures, and I'm sorry I didn't say what I wanted to say, and I'm sorry we fought, and I'm sorry we wasted so much time planning for a tomorrow we were never going to have.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:32 AM UTC
Fear Of Missing Out
This is the phobia many of the readers are plagued by.
I came to know about it just recently through an article published in the newspaper. Many people these days think that if they don't have a "Facebook", "Twitter", "G+" or any other social website account, or if their mobile doesn't have "Whatsapp" or any other so-called "social application" in "a smartphone" then they think that they are missing out on worldly affairs and start taming a phobia, dubbed F.O.M.O. by psychologists around the globe.
I am disillusioned by the need of an indispensable online society where people all behave in a virtual manner and project themselves to be the best.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
oasis soul
aches open sored genre of suffixes
or not enough crying alone
right natural science psychologists know
the medications and forms to get the payments
I am drugged amazement willing
to watch
and sigh
dreaming of a good time, dose shelters
the destination
faster than reality.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
Psychologists say
writing poetry help to heal broken heart
Therefore I write
I prove them wrong
Because the more I write
the more I am reminded of you
and it breaks my heart
into dust
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
Anyway, it'd be cheaper if products didn't advertise
But, instead, they waste all that good money
to cloud our vision and stuff our ears
Just to inform in the Information Age, you think
But, really, it's to mold
Look at the Billions spent on psychologists
Don't be confused
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Are these light rays
Making me uncomfortable?
Hard to wake up early
Hate to be awake early
All I'll have to do is get clean
And search for happiness
Why the newspapers worry me?
Early in the morning, I'd read
On the first page, controversies
Deaths and accidents, black news
Where did the psychologists go?
Get me stronger every dawn
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
Don't look now
I'm fading away
Into the gray of my mornings
Or the blues of every night
Is it that my nails
keep breaking
Or maybe the corn
on my secind little piggy
Things keep popping out
on my face
or
of my life
It seems no matter how
I try I become more difficult
to hold
I am not an easy woman
to want
They have asked
the psychiatrists . . . psychologists . . . politicians and social workers
What this decade will be
known for
There is no doubt . . . it is
loneliness
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Humanity is simplistic contrary to the complex, misunderstood, myriad of separately analyzed individuals that psychologists, artists, poets, and scientists paint it to be. Each person is labeled with a different disorder founded by their apparently personal past tragedies and harbors the wholehearted, mistaken, belief that they are alone in their “tragedy” which is indeed not tragedy but a side effect to the human condition, and arguably, to the optimist, one of life’s sacred milestones. Humanity likes to romanticize these milestones. They dress up their societal deemed shameful past with cashmere sweaters, line their lips with the grief of loss, and sweep their eyes with trust issue mascara all in an effort to pronounce themselves worthy and prove themselves beautiful despite their “unique” past events and tragic flaws. But they are not unique. When you peel off the pearls, when you delete the username, when you strip away the added flair to each sad story, humanity is all the same. They all front loss of some sort, they’ve all battled insecurity, they’ve all woken up one day perhaps wishing they hadn’t woken up at all. They’ve all laughed, cried, chased after the fleeting ideal of love, and questioned its palpability. They’ve each found themselves in a situation that made them ponder their ability to ever trust again, if they could ever love again, if they could ever be the same again; but what they don’t realize is that they are all the same. Rough the personal and each person is the same, just with a different name. Step back and behold, these seemingly individual fallacies of the human condition all spin together to weave a simplistically complex web.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 9:49 PM UTC
Why did you do that 5 days after my 19th birthday?
As if waiting until i graduated college
Or walking me down the aisle
Or seeing your grandchildren
Would make the pain any less bareable...
And its the little things that play with my emotions
Like...
Knowing i can never text you again
-Or wait by my window to watch you drive up the driveway because you were the only thing I was looking forward to all week
-Or sitting at an old burger joint discussing the power of the mind when intertwined with spirituality
-Or seeing the look on your face when I chased you around our handmade baseball field in the backyard
Those are the things I would give my own life to get back.
But two suicides dont make a life.
(At least thats what my psychologists say)
But I know if I could see my father again,
I would be taking my life back
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
The loneliness I'm keeping
But my sanity is leaking
When my past is speaking
Of the mistakes I'm reaping
I walk an uneasy line
Between shame and pride
But I travel in the wrong direction
And feel I have lost my connection
To myself
To my wealth
Of knowledge I have gained
For now it is stained
Because of my shame
Others see my game
Because I have lied
For the sake of pride
And they start playing
By happily filleting
My dignity
Into infinity
Pieces and desires
Until my mind retires
So I travel from the horrific
To the terrific
Near the Pacific
To be specific
A place
Where people don't wear a scarlet letter
For being as light as a feather
Where there are psychologists
Who understand my ****** logic
Who help me with my vice versus
And the sulfur beneath my surface
Now I'm back in the crowd
I cut through the shroud
And make there here
Through love and tears
I become a spokesman
And speak for myself
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC
The desperate scramble to
rationalise; the burning need
to make sense of the
nonsensical, this
all-too-earnest search for
answers, for some guidestone
that will help us decipher
the craziness scrawled on the walls,
a key that might unlock that door
which currently bars the path to
sanity and reason.
We put polls in the field,
conduct surveys, devise
better, more probing questionnaires,
consult eminent
psychologists, sociologists, economists,
go blind on data
tabulated into every conceivable form,
cite studies, historical precedent,
strive for any, any answers
that will explain to us
how we came to
this.
And maybe the reason is
less complex.
Maybe
we got what we
deserved.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Swapping astrology puzzle pieces
Stitching, patch working like cartoons writing typwriters
How many holes can I fit into my ear, can fix self brand new
I can sew
when is drunk wants the toilet to be a female therapist
done with psychologists
feel benzo anymore
taste narco anymore
Psychotropic **** arounds, ******* around with their sandy chalk trysyclo
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
Psychologists say that you can only have a "crush" on someone for four
months, and after that you are considered "in love".
Can I really be in love with someone who I have:
NEVER felt his hand entwined with mine to see how they fit
NEVER leaned my head on his shoulder when I am feeling upset
NEVER been able to express the feelings that I have for him... because I am forced to suppress them
NEVER have I been able to hear his affection towards me...because it is not there
NEVER felt his lips being gently pressed on mine
NEVER felt that intense moment when he looks at me and I can feel his loving gaze upon me
NEVER have I been able to feel his hand around my waist,gently pulling me closer, the feeling that he would NEVER wanted to let me go
NEVER
So, how can I be in love with you if we NEVER were.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
A grey and rainy day
A day to wash away the pain
Clean the slate before fate decides
The pain is here to stay
A person to specialise in fixing my problems
When I myself have trouble trying to solve them
A psychologist for someone as messed up as me
Can they really fix it?
Well I guess we'll see
I got so much anger
Yeah it's balled up deep within
Massages don't do **** for me
It's deeper than the muscles under my skin
It's all up in my mind
And a part of my anatomy
Can you really fix my anger
When it's coded in my chemistry?
I'm not too sure
But I really hope it works
Because if it doesn't I'll probably collapse
Either that or go bezerk
Down the other alley
Is a depression so deep
You can almost taste the water when
You're drowning in your sleep
But asleep or dead
I know it's all up in my head
Every problem can be solved with time
Rather than force the end
The problem with me is
Whilst I can write
Talking to others about my problems
Is probably my hardest fight
So hopefully I work well
With my new psychologist
And hopefully she doesn't become
An anger antagonist
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
I'm sick
I'm sick of it all
The doctors
Counsellors
Psychologists
Psychiatrists
Medication
And
I'm sick
I'm sick of me
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Now: in World News
Syria
has been hit with
Chemical
bombs by Russian aircrafts
no consequence
violation of human
and of human
and of rights
and wrongs?
Next: in World News
Palestine
received some 10
Bombings
on civilian areas
no consequence
violation of human
and of human
and of rights
and wrongs?
Shells
Dropped
on children on children on children
play in the rubble
as they bleed
what an image of
Innocence!
and of human
and of rights
and of wrongs
of human
human
huma
hum
hu
h
Hatred is a
Natural
emotion experienced
by the rich and powerful
Scientists
Psychologists
Doctors
Academics
confirm this
Again: in World War News
no comment
no consequence
violation
human
rights -
Take a left
And our reporter tells us
you'll see safety
in the west wings
taking flight over dead bodies
truly this is the world of -
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
My ****** bandages
cover the wound,
my imaginary band
is playing top of the roof.
Take
my
number,
take
my
victim
card,
victim
scarred,
singing
is
hard.
Standing center,
rage of frost
flooding
through arteries
to fingertips,
icicles dangling
from my ankles,
bass guy from the unnamed
session band cleared his throat,
looked over to the guitar man,
he was looking down.
I was dying with a flower in my hand,
making monuments out of the audience.
To the left of me was an angel
smiling,
drawing ***** on dollar bills,
stuffing them into the pants
of whoever passed by;
some feinted modesty
but most implored,
writhing,
******* themselves
crying "more, more more!"
To the right of me a
cricket heehawed-
involuntary-
and played a clown;
there were two psychologists,
one ripped off his clothes,
took fighting stance,
beating his chest and howling,
eyes glowing toxic green as his
colleague got on hands
and knees,
held a stethoscope
to the puddle of *****
accumulating beneath him,
brow creased,
listening intently.
And yes, I finished your manuscript,
under duress I guess.
I felt like I'd perfect the phrases
in the only ways that I knew how.
By clenching curses into my teeth,
allowing the howling soul
to disengage and repeat itself,
completing that boundless,
ever restless, and eternal process.
My ****** bandages cover the wounds,
my imaginary band is much
cooler than you.
It's nothing.
It's nothing
that you'd be into.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
.no, i believe in a god, because i also believe that man, cannot delve into proper jurisprudence... i believe in god because i can't believe that man can settle the argument for justice, outside the realm of the godly ultimatum of the democracy of, death.
so psychiatrists are basically
psychologists queen-armed
with pharmaceuticals...
i'm dead too...
and i'll bedead much more,
core, years later...
but like you'd ******* care...
psychiatry
is merely psychology for the masses,
with the sodden
pharmacological-blues
of the bourgeoisie-typo
of panic...
no ****** no...
i was the sort of person
that was necessarily
inconvenient....
i was diagnosed schizoid...
because if i wasn't,
i'd be deemed a
terrible, "idea"...
hell...
you can't forget me,
i'm loving the drugs,
esp. when i take them
while drinking!
so?
**** you!
bilingualism and reading
Heidegger,
could only be considered a mental
health issue,
in the ****** place, akin
to England...
thank god!
i'm ready for the Eire people
to cite their ******* Bible!
like some crooked excuse
in juxtaposing a vague
attire to satire.
- and what are the chances of
me being paid social consolidation
payments?
virtually, and really: nil...
but some ****
is just waiting for a housing benefit,
while expecting his fifth child?
so i'm mad...
come to think of it...
i tend to forget that god is evil...
i try to remember that man is: unjust...
god might be evil,
but i keep remembering that man is unjust...
i prefer an evil god
to a good god...
because, just because...
i know that man will never be just,
however much he glories a sense
of justice...
because i'm pretty sure
the devil covered that
instance of a paradox...
there is no "good" god...
when there's a notion
of man's injustice premeditated,
or, rather...
there is no "good" god...
when the justice of man,
supposed, "justice"...
is anything but a courtship with
a halved deliverance of
purpose...
an evil god is a god with only
the good bound to men...
and if men ploy their affair
of goodness on a faking...
ergo: quid est deus?
then a genuine diagnosis...
so...
why do people find it strange,
being diagnosed with cancer,
and their supporters, running
the career mile of a charity
shop organization...
ha ha! ha ha ha ha ha ha!
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
a stick owns two ends...
you laugh at me...
i? i laugh at you.
you were diagnosed with cancer?!
ha ha ha ha ha!
ha! ******
like how the the reversal of
the stick feels?
now watch me give a ****
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
The catastrophe of being a poet is that you are an annoying brain with delicate bones made of glass, who watches weird TV shows and reads bizarre newspaper happenings, ponder over the final chapters of your literary idols while walking the rain with hands inside your pajama pockets and dig out incomprehensible meanings someone managed to scribble at the back of his notebooks. Psychologists have such complicated theories about your social ineptitude, hence you die breathing the yellow notebook pages of a second-hand bookstore even though your brain signals warned you about chronic asthma. But you'll live for centuries inside punched hearts, libraries and under lazy bedsheets because at least for a moment you made a total stranger giggle, weep, scream and sometimes jump in joy over a well-penned verse. Did your friends tell you 'you suck'? Well, no one's gonna remember those *** holes and always remember if not today, but someday you'll be someone's wonderwall.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
The labyrinth of our mind
In the labyrinth of our minds, the secrets of the brain still hide
And maybe in the days of our lives, the answers we shall find.
The key to our knowledge and our lost memories preside,
In the basement of our unchartered minds,
In our subconscious lost time.
One day we shall find out all the secrets hidden within,
The pantry of our minds kitchen, which creates our feelings.
One day we shall realize how to spy the mysteries locked there in,
The safe of our conscious and subconscious labyrinth.
Our dreams and our nightmares are a glimpse at another wonder;
The original wonders of the world are deep within us, to be plundered.
We as humans shall take all we can get as we delve under,
The skull of another human mind in search of a new treasure.
What lies beneath the truth and the lies we all do speak?
What lays hidden under the shell of our sanity or insanity?
What will they think of next to invade our personal sanctuary?
In the deepest recesses of our labyrinth, our brain, our memories.
The doctors and nurses, the psychiatrists and psychologists,
Are a fingertip away from knowing the reason for our existence.
All we have left to discover is covered with the bone of our heads;
The brains functions have been unraveled partly.
Now we seek the rest.
We wish to know all the answers, so we dig like archaeologists,
Deep into the minds of the men, the women and the kids.
One day our T.V. will be linked directly into our brain cells,
So we can see the thoughts of our fellow humans and animals as well.
We shall unlock all the mysteries of the human mind given time,
But will we like what we see, deep within the labyrinth of our minds?
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 4:49 AM UTC
So yeah,
Maybe she does like calling guys daddy
But not for the reason you may think
Maybe it’s because she’s looking for fatherly love
Because she could never quite find it in the places she was supposed to
So instead she was left to wander
Through the constant murmurs of
“You must have daddy issues”
“Your dad left? You must have a daddy fetish”
“I’ll be your daddy”
Because people would rather fetishize an emotional trauma than
Acknowledge the pain
Maybe all she knows is unkempt promises
Because the only time her “daddy” came close to actually being one
Was whenever he kissed her on the forehead goodbye
Promising to play with her later
Look at her drawing later
Read her a bedtime story another night
And walked out the door
Maybe all she knows is love through screaming
I love you
I hate you
I love you
I hate you
Maybe all she knows is purple, blue, green, red and yellow are the colors of tender love and care
Why else would they show up on whoever her “daddy” touched
Psychologists say that it’s not uncommon to marry someone that is similar to one of your parents
But what happens when all she’s known from her “daddy” is neglect
Because her dad would rather choose being with a new family than the one that taught him how NOT to be a dad
Because her “daddy” would rather say “talk to your mom about this”
Than listen to his own flesh and blood’s worries himself
Because her “daddy” would rather come in and out of her life when it’s convenient for him
So now
She’s left
To sit alone at the end of the day to think that
Maybe if she had just been a “good girl”
And behaved,
If she had just listened to her “daddy”
Maybe she wouldn’t have to look for one
In other men
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC