"psychosomatic" poems
I am...
Funny word that
So perfect, so fitting
****** -"relating to the mind." "A psychopath"
"Somatic " - "relating to the body, especially as distinct from the mind."
Its great knowing the pain I feel...
All of its in my head.
I'm crazy for inflicting it on myself
But im ****** i cant help it
Psychosomatic is what I am
Mind over matter...right?
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
Upon every arrival of every celestial birth,
There is only one common normality.
A susceptibility to an infinitesimal design,
A kink in the chain, the war of our mind.
This psychosomatic condition is no stranger,
A rendition of life’s existence.
Confinement exacerbated by poor health in the gut line,
Hormonal imbalances manipulated by addictive influences.
Paradigms shifting in front of awakening eyes,
Psychedelic truths hidden within the tides of time,
Confusion and conflict preventing expansion of evolutionary consciousness,
A cyclic pattern, the sadness in all our lives.
This idea is immortal and internal in the human genome,
The greatest subterfuge,
Amnesia
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
I'm at my wit's end.
Fed up, burned out,
sick and tired.
Racing through alcohol fueled depression
because I'm not free, to be me.
Judged, criticized, crucified
held to the expectations
of other people's self-serving morality.
I'm a cog in a machine,
rolled under the wheels,
of a small business owner's
capitalist pipe dream.
I'm a pawn in a game
of war of money of politics.
Mislead, misdirected.
mission critical prime directive.
It's a story as old as "civilization"
all of this dehumanization.
Turning me into something
that serves you better.
I'm warning people
to stay away from me
because I see through their ****
and its ******** on ******** on ******** on ********
I'm warning people
I can't take much more
because every human being
is an ******* and a *****
Because we put these labels
on being truthful and free.
Because someone put a label on you
and now you put one on me.
Because someone taught you
its okay, to be
ignorant and mean.
And now I, have become
indignant and belligerent
which is just one step away
from being just like you.
But how do I move away?
Do I pack up the truck
and literally move away?
to where?
Are people somehow better somewhere?
Or do I just get as far away
as I can from them, from you?
Living off the grid
makes it hard to get laid.
Living off the land
makes it hard to get paid.
And you've been raised
to be a slave,
a wage parasite
on a dying host.
You want more than to survive.
You want to thrive.
You want to live forever
but will die of cancer or suicide.
The baby jesus inside me
has its face smashed into a tv screen.
The buddha inside me
is tired of taking the blame.
If every step kills a bug
and every bite kills a plant
and every breath kills a microbe
and every death of a dictator kills a universe of bacteria
then the only right action is inaction
and every action is inherently wrong.
Morality is a psychosomatic symptom
and our system is inherently flawed.
I try to escape and it seems like there's no way.
There's no light at the end of the tunnel,
and no traction on the corpses of the fallen.
There's a dream of hermitage, and the sadness that follows.
There is sadness in every corner bar and every heartbeat.
Sadness in every wilted limb and worried brow.
Sadness in every frustrated plea for release.
Sadness in the teardrops of the creation.
Sadness tumbling down like shards of glass
from the millions of dreams
broken by the machine.
Constant grinding.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking. i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic. these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide. now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect. the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.
depression: this is a gray day. i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania. so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.
anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through. i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low. i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.
self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time. i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.
addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.
all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
I'm looking for a hailstorm to run blindfolded through
For the sake of refief
A psychosomatic firing squad to save me
from this six by three square feet of dirt
that you have left me
I now drag behind myself
I have taken this earth
and sculpted it in your likeness
I am Pygmalion praying to the moon for love
but instead I get rain
and as the picture of Her and perfect summers
falls apart like mud through my finger
I clasp and grasp and gasp
and when the rain stops
I am left on my knees in the mud praying with open hands
my skin is baptized so clean my scars shine
Now as the pieces of a heart are returned to us
twisted and unwanted and rearranged like a Rubix cube
by the hands of past lovers
who we knew too fast and promised so much
but didn't care enough
to figure out our combinations
or to hold the secrets contained or the dreams cradled
in this human-sized box
I guess no one thought to tell them
that if you plan to be a past lover
return what you have found just as you have found it
and walk backwards
that the image of you walking away from me may not haunt me in the mornings
and I can make believe you are returning to me at night
but even the stars rearrange themselves
destiny can be rewritten
let what remains of my days be it's pages
in an infinite number of realities I am still happy with you
in an infinite number of realities I am tragic without you
but in this reality I may be happy without you
I'm kicking open my wardrobe and cleaning it out of all the shadows
I'm putting on a new jacket, a new hat
but I'm keeping my old shoes
for I will not forsake the path
all the roads that once only led to you now lead from you
thank you for the detour
I'm looking for new hands to run through forests with
new arms in which to build a home in
a girl to jump on bed sheets with
and a shoe box in an attic to bury you in
For this heart will grow and one day I will see
through an unbroken stained-glass window
you were just another piece of me
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Too thrilled by the case,
Sherlock just disappears,
To begin with a chase,
John is let alone,
To get a cab, and go to Baker St. .
But wait- wherever he goes,
The telephone booth starts ringing!
He waits for somebody to pick up,
And continues to walk;
The third booth starts ringing,
The caller must be desperate to talk.
A black, shiny car,
Pulls over for John to ride,
The destination seemed far,
In this conversation-less hour.
"Anthea", answered the accompanying secretary,
When asked her name,
Fake it was,
Absolutely.
The anxiety was over,
John was confronted by a well-dressed man,
Who offered him money, to spy,
The guy, who deduced Watson's army background,
By his tan.
The "arch-enemy" of Sherlock,
As he introduced himself,
Told John about his psychosomatic disorder,
"You are back in the game,
You don't fear danger,
You've missed this lifestyle."
True it was,
Pretty much,
"Could be dangerous", wrote Sherlock,
And there he was dashing into 221B.
Sherlock was quite disappointed,
When he got to know about the declination,
Of that tempting offer,
"Pity, we could've split the fee",
He suggested John for the next time.
Isn't Mr. Holmes quite irksome,
Calling John from the other end of London,
Just to send a text?
No, this was not an ordinary text,
An SMS was just sent,
By Mr. Watson's phone,
To the murderer.
The murderer?
But why?!
Elementary for SH.
Found the case within an hour,
Which was now in front him.
His mind, is truly above par!
One thing missing from the suitcase:
Her organizer, her phone.
"Nah, she's is a clever woman,
A serial adulterer,
Would never leave her phone at hotel",
This Holmes said, backed by balance of probability.
They waited at a restaurant,
And the wait was long,
But worth it.
Had to chase a taxi,
which was done successfully,
Thanks to Sherlock's excellent memory.
Hence proved it was,
The psychosomatic limb of Doctor.
A drugs bust had occurred at their place,
Seriously, this man, a deduction ****** would have drugs?
"I'm not a psychopath Anderson,
I'm a high functioning sociopath,
Do your research!"
Snapped Mr. Punchline.
Just a couple of minutes later,
This brilliant sleuth realized-
"Rachel! Yes, Rachel!
This woman in pink, Jennifer,
Is clever,
And she's dead!",
much to Mr. Holmes's displeasure.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
When your daughter is young,
you watch over her so she won't get stung.
You gaze into her sweet baby face,
so full of love and beautiful grace;
a sugarplum fairy, she's extaordinary;
a Joan of Arc, down to the birthmark.
When she turns sweet sixteen,
you see into the eyes of a prom queen;
a change so dramatic,
it drives you psychosomatic;
you practice meditation,
but it's still a complication!
Then comes her own love story,
lovely like a morning glory;
arm in arm eith your baby girl,
who's dressed in white like an ocean pearl.
Step, step , step all the way down the aisle,
you look at her face and see her smile.
Years pass so quickly, next thing you know
you're watching your precious granddaughter grow.
"Good-nught, Grandpa," says your little Snow White;
with tears in your eyes, you're feeling all right
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC
your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake soaked in your salt, shivering, an ocean; you address the doctor directly but she will not meet your eyes, she says your NIGHT SWEATS: psychosomatic, fever dream; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake on the examination table, the sanitary paper soaked in your salt, disintegrated into thin fibers clinging to your clammy back; you sleep in the bathroom, in the bathtub, your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake drowning in your salt, head violently breaching the water before you are fully conscious, a survival reflex, you suppose; your NIGHT SWEATS: you sleep in your garden, in the grass, you wake in a brackish marsh; your NIGHT SWEATS: salt crusts your skin, rough pale scabs; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
Reality is psychosomatic
We perpetuate thought-form
On a treadmill of synchronistic
Patterns
Passing self-doubt
In a transcendence contest
Fear vs. desire,
The pillars of motivation,
Exploited
With the best intention
Thought
to
Feeling
to
Action
A dream-scape manifested
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
That burn in the back of the throat isn't real.
It's an after effect. A side bar.
Psychosomatic. Problematic. Symptomatic.
Crippled in sentiment and misunderstanding.
Viscously bleeding from the mind in colors.
How lost to have gone and wandered there.
Clearly now in repose, there was no "them" to save at all.
Only him and his strangled mostly dying agreements with the sun.
That remain standing between the here and now in need of repair.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 8:05 PM UTC
She deserves recognition
For her work as a technician
Who's expertise is ball bustin
Who majors in ********
Excelling in the field of advance
Hot air production
A profession heckler who
Composes an orchestra conductin
A firework show eruptin
With colorful rants red, and purples
She's acclaimed for rhetorical
Questions that repeats in circles
An elite linguistics scholar
Who's sarcasm is an accomplishment
Very talented...no gifted at making
An insult sound like a compliment
And Her stamina to do so
Is like an Olympian who's pleased
Only when her track and field
Meet of slander makes ur ears bleed
A masters degree in belittling
A graduated philosopher for the bitter
Must be a psychologist the way
She attacks my sanity to litter
Insecurities, and doubts and I
Heard she has a phd in hypnosis
Until u start to believe her ********
And this psychosomatic is ur psychosis
A world class magician who's
Tricks leave u perplexed in thought
A novelist who narrates to taunt
Controlling all characters and plot
She wrote the book on torturing
A man and emasculating him so
He may never move forward and
She was in the military I'm told
Historically known for her
intellectual Warfare
Manipulating soilders and utilizing
The grounds to ambush u there
A social tyrant who's brilliant
Political ties help her achieve
Her plan like constituents are
Biased so they're all after me
A paralegal who's unfair and lethal
And to her it's titalation
Unfair is her terms but like a
Perm ull get burned in litagation
A degree in early childhood
Education so she acts like a rebel
Perfecting being childish and
Unaffected by ur feelings on levels
Only a schoolyard bully could
Match, she's my jailhouse warden
Who's power is focused on me
Relentlessly constructing like a foreman
With Her future blueprints to
See what the hell she builds for me
Will look like, and she's also a director
In the *********** industry
So she tells in great detail
Just how I'll be ******
She must have been taught by
Peter pan how to never grow up
Trained as medic who specializes
In one area over them all
Nudering human males
So surgically she removes my *****
After she breaks them and
So I am the constant fool
This exceptional jack of trades
Makes me wish that I stayed in school
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
rusty knees folded under a
quilt weaved by the calloused hands of
particles of grandmothers' grandmothers,
head heavy on a
down-breasted pillow,
rising and falling softly
in a bedroom den,
whispering relative semantics of
a testament revised
while outside, tornadoes uproot trees
and displace plywood houses
with charred pies frozen on the windowsill,
entombed from the harsh winter's frost
and incubation in false ovens;
i recall seasonal naps of
drifting and wakening
and colourful mosaics
painted across the dreamland sky,
drinking cups of melatonin-laced chamomile
steeped in an angel teapot that induced
psychosomatic apparitions in constant relay
from earhole to earhole and
assisted with pulling an endless rope out of my
mouth which had been tied to the pit of my ulcerated stomach,
my head twisting in a corkscrew spiral,
meeting a longing gaze
and twisting back again,
oh! my bottled neck!
you retell poems softly spoken loudly
with my kisses on your heavy eyelids,
before we drift through the sheer veil
into unified consciousness,
taking a glimpse at our crowning home in
an infinite land,
enveloped in time-honoured Love
bestowed upon us in
pure, Divine fate,
watching endless words of
'i love you', 'i love you'
trickle like sand though a
heavenly hour glass figure;
to wake, a chance to celebrate,
to die, a chance to find each other again.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Is life a course
or a curse,
a path
or a pathology?
Is living a blessing
or a lessening,
a miracle
or a mirage?
Is it a kiss
or a miss,
a tender touch
or simply a come-on?
The opposite of love
is not hate,
but uncaring,
simply not feeling.
Are all illnesses
psychosomatic,
a disguised, silent way
that we take out
our unconscious anger
against ourselves?
Love both clarifies
and resolves these ambiguities,
seeking always the better
over the worse.
Life can mean love,
but too often
means meanness.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 2:57 AM UTC
I have but a smatter of the angelic tongue;
The language of angels, archaic and foreign as the morning sun
It's to you I posit the following query:
Should I for one be ecstatic or pragmatic,
When the voice of God speaks to me only in static
I choose to believe but this troublesome quarry is all too problematic
My philosophy and logic quarrelsome emphatic
Psychosomatic and impractical
Maybe it's the infrequency with which I tune my internal radio;
And maybe I'm not listening
Or maybe it's really true what Nietzsche touted so many moons ago
I beg for sacrament
But partake in sacrilege
If its true that Soul is eternal
Or even existential
What is the sake that merits mine salvation
If I can't save even those I hold near and dear from being of Self mind
Fallacy of ego.
Global enslavement.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
say cowboy.
say hot dog.
say ice cream.
say baseball.
see, the step into the sound booth is an awkward height,
about 6 inches off the ground,
and i find myself raised on a pedestal,
sealed in for you to inspect,
watching you and an audiologist
through a glass window,
watching you decide my future
as you face away from me
so i cannot read your lips
and you cannot see me shouting stop.
say airplane,
say sidewalk,
say you might hear static in your right ear
but i know i will only hear a tone,
an electronic beep going on and on and on
say conducive hearing loss say sensoneurial damage say surgery say it might be permanent this time,
like it hasn't been permanent for the last ten years,
say there's a new technique say we can fix this,
say negative impact on social life, say poor classroom performance,
say we just want what's best for you,
say try hearing aids try CIs try cued speech,
say you need to be fixed.
it's been a decade since i first entered that sound booth,
noises not echoing off these walls that take a little more from me with every test.
it's been a decade since my hearing slipped away and
i am done mourning it but i don't think you are.
persistence is a valuable trait but stop trying,
stop putting me under with an x on my right cheek so the surgeons know how to lay me out on the operating table,
stop refusing to turn on the captions because i need the practice,
stop talking to me without tapping me first,
stop screaming at me when i mishear.
i am done mourning my hearing and i don't know if i ever grieved in the first place but you are still stuck in the stage of denial,
hoping against hope for some ******* miracle.
i don't want a miracle, i don't want anything god can give me because i am not lacking, i am whole, i already am the miracle you were looking for and i don't need to be fixed.
but you don’t believe that, do you?
so the audiologist can open the heavy soundproof door but i am still trapped inside this box,
the walls swallowing my words as you decide my future for me because
no one wants to listen to those who cannot hear.
say stop sign,
say hairbrush,
say push the button when you hear the beep
and i hold it down with my thumb,
gripping the clicker like the handle of a gun
until you tell me to let go.
but i hear deserts stretching away from me,
flat sci-fi dreamscapes where there is only one sound and i can hear it too.
say tinnitus,
say psychosomatic because you don't believe that i might hear infinity where you tell me i shouldn't.
say hole in the eardrum say the surgery might have accelerated the deterioration,
say we can try again but
i gave up ten years ago and i think you should too,
and i'm here in this sound booth screaming for you to stop
but you will not look at me,
will not even attempt communication.
no one wants to listen
to those who cannot hear.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
Falling, falling, falling,
forever
or is this
G
N
I
T
A
O
L
F
towards a shimmer in the distance
like a wind that carries a dead leaf
whispering through the chimes
that fall upon deaf ears
as if the message was sent
and it just wasn't heard
No, this is f
a
l
off l
the i
precipice n
g
as I watch the sky
march round in a funeral procession
of our history
F L O A T I N G
in this disorienting gravity
S E D U C I N G
in this magnetic propinquity
T E A R I N G
in this psychosomatic schism
every storm proceeds an epoch
of pleasure
as if pleasure
is an
Grecian artifact
in the backdrop of Ovid
The caterpillar
of Like
of Love
of Hate
cocoons into insouciant
vicissitudes
Y.
A
W
but refuses to fly A
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
*Assemble misaligned stars
To watch them fall
Doors open wide
Motionless
Captive
Of an invisible tether
Propelled by dreams
Of holding the bended hands of time
In the palm of trembling hands
To return to a better place
Hovering in the corridors
Of uncertainty
Merciless rumination
psychosomatic ruin
Cowardly lioness
Once of intrepid spirit.*
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
A flower blossoms in the desert
on a cactus where there's no one to see it.
The beauty mark upon the oasis.
Candlelight in the darkness, lit
outstretched hands hold reminders
puzzle pieces with no remainders;
a ghost alone without pension.
Obelisks withstand the seasons
of a troubled, turbulent heart
resistant to the call of reason
as gravitation pulls us apart.
The talisman will guard the flower
from its persistent self-destruction.
Even though it has no power,
Its psychosomatic, deep within.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
Brush your teeth 'til ya gag
psychosomatic spitting
hock out your spirit
watch it swirl down the drain
flush your **** down
the throne of silence
out of sight
out of mind
out of mind
out of sight
Allen Ginsberg was a **** machine
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Where does man, where does woman, where does beast go
When slumber dawns upon their fleshly vessel?
When the twilit sky bleeds into a stygian veil?
When the musicality within begins to take psychosomatic form?
I reminisce over the eventuality that stirred my burgeoning.
It quaked my lucubrations, my excogitations, intellectualizations;
Ye, The Incendiary Phoenix Flame billows within. Rebirth awaits
every anima forged by The Apotheosis of The Astral Flame.
The doughty firebrand in me shalt nought surrender,
The Gaian Warrior within shall ne'er be forgotten,
And my reverenc'd doubts shall be undone.
O, whence all incredulities have been uttered The Leadings of Lovelight shall prevail. The Vestige that once ravaged my remembrance shall vanish into The Magisterial Tides of Oblivion,
We are all one with the Blood-Tinged Oath, The Fulgent Daystar;
He, exhaled eternity into the souls vexed by mortality.
Underneath the Sun:
There breathes an azure vista.
What lieth above our aethereal aegis has incited inquisitiveness aeons aforetime
Open your hearts to the cosmic currents, the transcendent torrent,
The Communal Oneness of The Primal Phantasmagoric;
By that One,
For all time we were summoned.
Question what lie before to be spirited away.
Listen to the arcadian zephyr whisper
Through in, through out your every breath. Trust, the Sanctity of intuition.
Coloring the Changing of The Seasons.
The aqueous dew throngs upon virescent leaflets,
A fulgurant surge fulminates
Upon The Celestial’s bedarkened sky.
Red- Shift Existence: evidence, upon which a system of belief expands, under examination
Therefore, it is our duty to ponder the Legacy of the Sages
That we might unravel the esoteric secrets
That function as a key
In gainsaying, in overturning The Lock of Fallacy.
Finally we gain understanding, we acquire wisdom
Altering our cognitive trajectory.
What is Life,
What is Love,
What is Divinity,
Without creativity?
Without imagination?
Without vision?
We must all surrender to
The Sacral Expressions of Omnibenevolence.
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 6:50 PM UTC
*they call me the mourning dove.
hallowed be my refrain.
i sing with a bleeding tongue-
beauty stems from my pain.*
you're slivered inside and derided on sight.
your abhorrent habits have cast fans aside-
your knack for dramatics belittles the tragic.
it isn't romantic. get over your strife.
*they call me the mourning dove.
hallowed be my refrain.
i sing with a bleeding tongue-
beauty stems from my pain.*
not all life is suffering- you're twisting it in your head.
psychosomatic pain's no reason to act dead.
you're wasting your youth with these childish blues.
self-pity is useless, contagious. get out of bed.
*they call me the mourning dove.
hallowed be my refrain.
i sing for my poisoned loves-
my voices guides them to their graves.*
stop worr'ying the wound and it'll event'lly heal.
quit floating towards koreyland- identify what is real.
if you wanna get better you gotta be brave.
face the pain and the rain or stay caught up in tears and weals.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
Psychosomatic Illness
1. Of or relating to a disorder having physical symptoms but originating from mental or emotional causes.
2. Relating to or concerned with the influence of the mind on the body, and the body on the mind, especially with respect to disease
a.k.a. thinking I am mentally sick can actually make me become mentally and physically sick.
is this what has been happening this whole time..
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
Don't offer me what can be bought,
Or make an offer solely based,
On your soul, when faced,
With guilt seized,
So you can feel guilt flee
Like paying a guilts fee,
Leads you to guilt free.
So if you ever eventually
Find a mind of consciousness mentally
You'll see, true empathy is empty, leaving sympathy, Rudementally,
Don't give me a coat, for freezing,
Stand in the cold, never leaving
Emotionally, blood in oceans leak
Cut yourself, so as one were bleeding
And I promise you when the years
Reverse and the curse, of your fears
Tear your flesh internally, turn to me
And for eternally I'll shed ur tears
With u, and yes. I know, how peculiar and convoluted, it is when I say
"don't relinquish food to me
if I'm hungry.....Throw yours away,
Let me know I'm not alone.
Don't pull me out from dark depths
Crawl inside the dark cell in hell where I'm held, Where my secrets are kept
Don't try to heal my insecurities,
Reassuring me, assurity; obnoxious
Instead reveal, what makes you feel
Scars unhealed, or self conscious
Or like the others, be pompous
Judgemental, narcissistic corrosive
psychosomatic vanity, causing insanity a Psychotic fantasy, causing psychosis
To those like me, who see it's atrocious
So plz, keep youe charitable deposit
As it doesn't help me. As much as your
Guilt, so it doesn't hang in your closet
With the other skeletons, and elephants
And other less than eloquent shame
Don't act like u are feeling my pain
Don't R.kelly **** on me &call; it rain
I don't wanna stand under your umbrella, stand in the storm with me
So we never fear being with no umbrella, instead knowing that we
Survived the worst, that this earth
Could disperse, so never
Again will we fear it, but more than that, we'd Know whether the weather
Was the worse ever endevoired,
&fall; to death, that is still better
Than life where no ones love, is tested, to never know, what's truly forever
To never know, the beauty in pain
Or gifted lesson, in a hard loss
Cause what can ever be valued, with out knowing how to, sacrifice for a cost
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
It's psychological,
That's what they said.
It's all to do with,
What's in her head.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC