"sociopathic" poems
On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array
Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away
Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease
To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
When you look into my eyes
You'll be lookin at a homocide
That's your soul's ****** demise
It's about time you decide
Whether you want to star in a thriller
With a silent sociopathic killer
A regular body part miller
Nothing but a body bag filler
I be living in this house of pain
Behind these curtains vain
Torn asunder by the knife
That is sharpened in strife
Letting loose liquid crimson life
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Your pre-frontal cortex is delectably oral amidst this maze of psychological violence.
Oh, mistress of certain uncertainty, I cannot articulate the essence of ontology, as human language is inadequate. But, you truly capture the flow of irregularity in this mass mockery of societal fabric.
Therefore, I simply appeal to our mutual and primitive impulses. Let us be rough, despite the misguided assumptions of those who claim to have affiliation.
I like old school choppers, because they are not polished.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
A sadistic outlook
I hide my fallacies and avarice in a sock drawer,
neatly placed next to my pill bottles
In the closet closest, I store the prospect of future casualties
Shuffled neatly undernearth media propaganda and the war in Uganda
I suffocate the tragedy of unknown victims in my display of malice
Muffled as they’re whimpering
Sociopathic symphony
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC
#
Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)
One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.
And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-dick,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.
Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.
There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..
the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..
*--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--*
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.
****
eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.
Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.
#
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:40 PM UTC
I am lost for words, as I am empathic with the planet.
Although we truly stand in line for death and the afterlife, it is important that we mother our young.
I do not deny the allurement of sociopathic inclinations and I heartily validate the sexuality of suburban expression.
But, we both know – politicians rise like winged beasts from the murky depths of sociological oceans.
Can I touch your skin and give you compliments?
I love your being, just as it is.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
I live beyond morality, cloudy
Skies issue complaints, however
I hardly have the time.
I often catch myself
Staring at creatures.
Wondering where they
Wander, and why.
I want to fight dragons today.
I want to find a voice
That suits me. Grey skies
And frozen cranes, bother me.
The stone wet, and
Broken. Lifeless creatures
Can be neither evil nor
Wealthy.
Broken Binaries. Broken
Machines. What glues
Our heads to our
Bodies?
Is there a separation?
Voices
Walk down the hall and
Interrupt my view
Through the window.
Focusing again I see
Opaque. Unable to
Look past the glass.
Only up to it.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC
I laugh a lot.
I laugh at myself because I am hard stuck to find the beauty in the poetry
but somehow to others words flow like vicious currents rip through ugly ducklings never to be grown to beautiful swans down the river Delta,
the Nile,
we call it emotion, this the true beauty of the words is always flowing page to mouth to mouth to ear,
honey water to be digested by the soul and mind
and some breast stroke some and some do the butterfly and some just fuckin' drown...
so you could say to some poetry is no laughing matter...
yet here I titter like a child because I cant help but wonder if Daniel's saying penance or just stuttering the word *****
So I laugh
I laugh and laugh and laugh I laugh at myself I definitely laugh at you people
I ha ha ha my course thoughts, outwards reflecting anger passion, turning it away
with the yip yawing of jaws and gums flapping in celestial proportions of denial
snorts and giggles push back emotion drowning out any semblance of fear or hate
because who's to say I can handle it,
call it sociopathic tenancies but I'll make it make belief because we just cant handle the fairy tale we live in
we cant handle that there might be no happily ever afters and we cant handle that we dont have a Prince charming to take care of us
but instead the crown is Crown Royal and you love it, love the burn down your throat,
something to keep you alive something to keep you awake but aren’t the two just one of the same anyway?
What is each day but a dream if automation takes you over rides you out like a machine and pushes 100110101.
So I ask you,
I ask you to listen to the words and the voice,
swim down the river any way you want just get your feet wet because living on dry land is living in fear
But more importantly I ask me
I ask me to do what I asked you to do, but how can I trust me to do what I told you to do when I hardly connect the concept of we and have used it but once in my work, though I am no different than you!
Because what are we if not all the same?
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
I wish I missed people.
I feel like by never missing anyone
I demean the relationships I have.
I just can't help it.
Sometimes I wish someone in particular was with me
But those feelings are always short
And fleeting.
By never needing anyone
When I know how much the other person misses me
I feel like I'm not as committed to them as they are to me.
It's not on purpose.
I tell them I miss them when they say it first
but it's always a lie.
Maybe I'm just a sociopath.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:26 PM UTC
Boredom kills
cheap thrills.
Nothing to do,
no one to *****
No drugs
No *****
No smokes
No fun
Think I will sit
for a bit.
Think as I scratch and twitch.
Neurotic fears
****** fantasies
Sociopathic comments
Psychopathic actions
I don't care anymore.
The fuse has been lit
and there is no water for miles.
Bang bang mother ******
bang bang boom.
Amongst the rubble a bitter poem
A poet in trouble that shouldn't have been left alone.
Burnt
Charred
Dead.
Smells like...
Agony
Fear
Dumbness
Numbness
Aggression
Depression
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
Hate.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
Sociopathic spiritualist
Confused by this?
Ya gettin' the jist
Years in a green mist
Gorilla ****** at the sight of poachers hi-viz
Blatant thievery
Gettin' me irate & militant
Conductin' information like a cobalt filament
Hippocracies imminent
If you don't know the deal look at Africa's innocents
The future for a fee
Monitory
Cold as the Chukchi seas
If your wonderin' where they be?
Let go of Albert Square & check your geography
Menace to sobriety
Rudarellis playin' tennis with the moods it's supplyin' me
Preachin' no class As
Hittin' the mirror like the mans buyin' me
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 7:27 AM UTC
Take me away-
Distract me from this place.
Stress has overtaken me
My life has forsaken me.
I have just realized,
After all that I've done,
I've become like them.
A mindless robot
With sociopathic tendencies.
I'm begining to malfunction.
Help me,
Take me away.
Fix me.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
She needs you because she feels,
And when she does, it's all too real.
Conveniently,
You are her fantasy.
Through you she lives vicariously -
The bitter queen of apathy.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******** about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC
Rain is such a beautiful thing
The way the drops splash
Drenching all in a liquid sheet
All encompassing it rains for miles
Swallowing the world in a dreary state
I love the rain
Rain means no smiles
No sunny days
A world with rain
Where the people feel my sorrow
Where my darkness becomes reality
And no matter how much they despise it
They cannot escape
Rain is cruel
Trapping you
Holding you
Rain is misery
Rain is my reality
That I gladly give to you
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
Dearly Beloved we gather here today,
Not to celebrate a lovely matrimony,
But to celebrate loss,
A death that touches us every day,
And will do so for the rest of our lives.
Dearly Beloved we mustn't cry,
Not shed a single tear,
We can't nor should we.
Dearly Beloved the death amugst us,
The death I speak of is the death of love,
The death of compassion and kindness,
The death of good all riped from the world far too soon.
Now that it's gone we are left with no emothion,
Left to our sociopathic tendencies,
Left to ourselves,
Left hoping one day these people,
Love, comapsion, kindness and everything good,
Hoping that they will return to make us better again,
So Dearly Beloved I leave you with this,
The tool to bring them all back from the dead,
It's but a smile they said and looked around.
But someday the Dearly Beloved may understand,
It's the small things on a big scale that makes the world good and that's disappearing.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
My feelings of hate border on revulsion
Repulsion bordering on abhorrence,
Course through my veins
My blood is thick with ill will
Sociopathic thoughts fire my personal hatred
Hate is more powerful than love
Love hurts hate kills.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
Let me start by saying how sorry I am. I didn't want this to be an apology letter, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that that is what you deserve, and I never gave it to you. I built you up, just to eventually tear you down again because of my own selfish insecurities. And after everything was said and done, you still loved me. You accepted me for who I was, with every single fault. I never realized how significant you were to me until you left. I just couldn't comprehend that even when we were over, you were still what kept me sane. I would **** to spend a lazy day doing absolutely nothing with you just one more time. You have no idea how much I've gone downhill since you left. I know you always thought of me as the strong one, but lately I have been a complete mess. I can't talk to anyone though, because no one really knows me like you do. You doubted I would miss you at all, but I find myself thinking about you more and more everyday. The other day I looked through our old conversations. It broke my heart. I want to talk to you. I want to hold you. I need you. I just really wish you were here.
All of that being said, I am so proud of you for what you're doing. You're finally addressing your problems and taking control of your life. You've inspired me. I am going to pursue help for my problems with sociopathic tendencies and depression. I hear you're very happy and have found where you want to be. I also hear you're not coming back, and I assume we will never see each other again. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I made a huge mistake. I thought I was falling out of love with you. And I got scared that it would lead to me doing something stupid. But I never fell out of love with you, and I still haven't. I love you. I know that even if I see you again that you will have changed, and be a completely different person. I'm not religious, but I pray to god that you still love me too. It's terrifying to think that I'll never see you again, but infinitely worse to think that I will and that you no longer have feelings for me. I really wish I had come to these realizations before you left. I never even got to give you a real goodbye. So that's what this is I guess. I doubt you will ever see this, but I can hope that one day you will accidentally stumble upon it. I know you'll know it's about you. So goodbye, good luck, and by chance I hope our paths will cross in the future.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
i'm wandering along a beach and i just killed the Arab
i'm waking up one day sophomore year and i'm deciding that it will be the last day of my entire life as i tie my shoes to go to school
i'm at my mother's wake and i'm trying to care but i just can't and i'm okay with it
i'm walking down the hallway and no one is making eye contact with me because they are afraid or disgusted or don't care or all of the above
i'm using some of my last breaths to yell at the priest and feeling no remorse
i'm making conversation with my last period teacher and smiling for the first time all day
i'm looking out at the crowd about to witness my death and feeling the gentle indifference of the world
i'm relating more to a sociopathic man in an absurdist novel than anyone i've ever met and i'm
not worried about it at all
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
sticks and stones
may break my bones
(but words will never hurt me)
people stare when we hold hands, they glare and point and scream in whispers behind cupped palms. sometimes they applaud or congratulate us, but i hate that, too; i don't want to be brave or strong or special i just want to kiss you without glancing left and right first. boys in parking lots shout and whistle, cars honk but WE'RE RUBBER YOU'RE GLUE, IT BOUNCES OFF US AND STICKS TO YOU so guess what- you're the ***** you're the ******* you're the freaks, you have to change the pronouns in your poetry, you are afraid of churches, you were listed in The Diagnostic And Statistical Manual Of Mental Disorders as a "sociopathic personality disturbance" until its seventh edition. if i had a nickel for every time a mother hurried a child away from us on the street, i might have enough money to sue one or two of you for harassment and hate.
s.h.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Just as the pyramids would,
In the deserts of Cairo,
Snow-capped mountains gleam distant,
As if Kings on the Main.
This distance complete,
Through the eyes of the beholder,
As from a sea-sided office,
We with watch with wonder lust.
Bright streetlights,
And red lights, and green lights,
And stop signs,
As decadent name-change,
Perceives as if older,
As bigger, as bolder.
Musicians and artists,
Poets and Marxists,
Authors and boxers,
All convene to sing songs,
As egalitarianism,
Sings us a calm, blinded lullaby,
As the idea to be grasped,
In this young mind of mine.
They call this no small town,
In which not one arcade resides;
Gun crime is never,
In percent, as we ride,
A wave of communal,
Small-town "world peace,"
We'll take some money,
Off the governments lease.
In a sense we are distant,
Different, contesting,
A world which conforms,
As if all can and will be,
A slave to a master,
Sociopathic disaster,
As we run faster and faster,
Away from that stream.
We are the masters of our fate,
As we rate the world's hate,
On a scale from 1 to 10.
We are secluded,
Yet unconfused, not diluted;
We are more aware of this world,
Than it is of itself.
We set the sidelines,
As guidelines to life,
As we watch with some bias,
As we remain neutral to strife.
We are the Power,
And we are the River,
Ripped from the main-stream,
We create; we are free.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
I don't know
What is left of me
Or even
If there is
Anything at all
Ground down to nothing
I am not here
Not anymore
You see
Looking back
I can see
All the signs were there
Over these last four years
Memories can't be trusted
Were they all lies?
Your sociopathic inferno of illusion
Little by little I played into
Your game of chess
Thinking I was an opponent
In good spirits
But only was the pawn
From the very beginning
Spiraled into your manipulative ways
You were the puppet master
Now I see
And now the damage is done
Over
But not
Really ever
And yet
You still find a way
To pour salt in the wound
And you are not
Even here
Just sharp words
That cut me down to size
Smaller
And smaller
Until I cower once again
My mistake was bowing down
My mistake was valuing
Y O U
Over M E
Now I'm left
Deeper in the pit
Damaged beyond return
I am broken
Left less of a being
That I was before
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
Whispers dancing
in between
thoughts and feelings
pushing and weaving
thin threads
through out my mind.
Images peaking
into the corners
of my eyes
my memory
making me
question if
anything is
real anymore.
When will there
be a middle ground
from sociopathic
to emotionally
overloaded?
When will
overwhelming
anxiety stop
and human
interaction start?
Will i ever be
fully honest
with anyone
without the
fear of rejection
for a chemical
imperfection?
Or will living
be an elaborate
lie to keep
anyone and everyone
away from
the truth
of insanity?
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
I sit by myself
My feet fit in the space
behind the rows
my boots feeling
the stick of leftover
pop
residue of someone else's
night out.
when the blue and black
of this giant space
comes up and the
sound invades the air
around my shoulders
I settle
and let the thinness
of fake light
triumphant music
and the emotions
of beautiful
sociopathic creatures
fix and fill
the holes and
crannies in
the road of
my lonesome
soul.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 3:51 PM UTC