"sociopathy" poems
the darkest of my fantasies whisper
Your body is a scuba suit
insist i breath with your ******* through your mouth
dive deep into claustrophobic waters, sink heavy to the rock bottom
where we petrify by gorgans gaze
i know we'll turn to stone because, of course, the gorgans can't resist gazing at You
nobody can resist gazing at You, land or sea.
Our permanent legacy, lost under layers of life
barnacles clinging, moss burying Our chimera god/snake skin
i am without Your oxygen
when breathing would terrorize the wind
where words belong
still, my forked tongue writes
i'm a theif to say i only want You to be happy
when i had You, it was still selfish
the revolving doors of pain and perseverance
more time invested in us
then money invested in the Pills that kept me from killing You
out of habit
You begged me to beat You
it's been seven hands dealt
rubbing my 5 o'clock sandpaper chin
on the tarot card of death
my tolerance for vacancy
a brownish red stain
i've only the thin line of medication between necrophilia and sociopathy
i want to lay with You at the bottom of the sea
**the Pills... where are...
please no, God.
The Voice, run!
get out!**
*I would gladly go to prison
to **** your lifeless body.
I would gladly **** Myself in the afterglow
of your affection.
there is only one true Sin, Objectification.
I indulge relapse
in every memory, find
your shed snake skin
pull it on, like your *******
how disturbed I've become
with you gone*
how selfish of you
of course "I" blames You
when the Pills dull
i indulge by studying Your location
i know where You escape too
i want to go there
does that scare You?
i want to bump into You
apoligise for what i want
"want" as a word
is like plexi-glass, or kevlar
standing between Us
keeping the bullet safe.
i want a hard impact
in a school hallway
where we drop all our
Books and look up and You
see my ghost, that would be enough for Me
i want the impact to hurt.
i want the tumbling of all our Book's
i want the messy hair and ripped knees,
then Our
eyes to meet
and linger
I want to watch the fear fill you.
i want to sit there,
watching.
petrify from parcel tongues
as i gaze at Your gorgon body
shedding skin
if i shed my snakeskin,
maybe i'll see You
i can't leave this Poem
i can't leave this Poem yet
i won't leave this Poem
please kick me out
Poem
Poem
end Me
..
end
.
I
..
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
it's embarrassing but it's true.
i just googled "how to fall in love".
and i googled "how to fall in love" because i am not in love right now and i really, really want to be.
my google searchings were inconclusive and i am just as unsatisfied
mind, body, and spirit
as i was when i started typing "h" into the search bar
there is nothing in my heart right now.
my mother knocked and no one was home.
it makes me anxious:
how did i go from someone so overwhelmed by the enormity and ever-presence of her emotions
to someone so void of them that i feel an echo in my chest when someone says my name?
i've also googled sociopathy,
but apparently i'm not one of those.
so here i am, somewhere on a sliding scale
between all or nothing.
and i report from the field that it is not, in fact, all or nothing.
i know i'm not alone out here,
but it sure does feel like it,
when i reach out and even shadows don't reach back.
it's not like i've already accepted dying alone but it's not looking likely that i'll be marrying my college sweetheart, either.
i just want my feelings back.
is there a link to that in the first page of google results?
i'll even pay for shipping, i guess.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
Forensic psychology is not an exact science, despite the lofty assertions of those who are deemed to have expertise in the face of non-empathic presumption.
Please, do not dismiss the wisdom of those who are seasoned in the metaphorical school of life. It is far too expensive, even though there is an apparent and mutual understanding between those on each side of the great divide.
Dazzling suits and coherent reports do not adequately represent intricate diversities in the docks of criminality where the laughter of the prosecution echoes throughout the beams of formality.
Therefore, sociopathy and psychopathy remain to be inadequately defined.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
lessons of life's sanctity,
clarity of reason
and chastity
elude
the sociopath unglued;
clouded lens
filtering threads
of sense
common from extreme,
relishing shreds of conspiracies
unfounded...
tying the falling dow and twin-towers...
to call of duty and
the man....
in the slick blue suit
with the funny last name
sticking it to us,
stripping us of our inalienable rights,
god-given,
taking our bibles and guns away
to mombasa
spiraling memes of dysfunction
programmed to propagate fallacies
in minds unhinged
on the fringes of reality...
like paranoiacs
sipping green tea
or a.m. fanatics
fueling the frenzy
of sociopaths unglued,
licensed to spill
sacred blood
of the masses
at a crowded school
or movie theater
near you
now previewing:
*~ mass homicide XII
&
~ teenage terrorist in black - the sequel*
home-grown
&
fully-loaded...
~ P (Pablo)
(8/5/2013)
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.
Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.
We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.
We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.
Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.
A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.
Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.
And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.
Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.
Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?
Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.
I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 9:41 PM UTC
feeling like I should feel bad
experience sadness for innocents
and anger at bad people,
gun toting murderers
without care
threatening the fabric
of my burgeoning police state…
but I do not –
eyes light up at daily headlines
unwound minds blindly destroying.
human land mines, primed and
in line at your local grocery
mostly just waiting for that moment
when they can really show them
all –
I call this the road to the end
humanity’s demise realized
live on the five o’clock news
nightly…
it’s alright we lie to our children
telling them sleepily not to hide
and abide the tide of rising
genocide
on the young and dark skinned
who are destined to win in the end
when those left on the planet
share similar skin
let me begin, again –
last punch I threw
was in 2nd grade
got hit in the face in 6th
but didn’t make a fist
already leaning to a pacifist
in the mist of my drunken
father’s fists.
shot a deer in my 15th year
and put the gun down for the fear
of some cosmic shear…
still ate meat without feeling defeated
but cheated myself by disguising these choices
as voices in my head…
with an unruly hand planning on writing poetry –
but I love the disillusion
the growing confusion
that is a fusion
of people in sheep’s mindset
letting psychopathic dictators
dictate their lives
pill popping wives in new-age beehives
naming children ‘Chandelier’ and ‘Compromise’…
I accept my sociopathy
and embrace myself as a dying race
those willing to face the truths
and not try to sooth the pain
while knowing these are the last days
and sit amazed
while blazing legal marijuana –
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
You said you
wanted to hold me
because I feel;
wanted to
run your hands on my skin;
taste the baseline
in the hopes it'd
make you heal.
My stone face
chuckled inside
as if wounds get
mended by smiles
and aftermath
gets cleared
by denial.
It's a momumental
discension of sociopathy
human feet
shuffling
shuffling
away from the empathy.
So you want to
touch me,
drag me into
the abyss
of your kiss
because I represent
what you miss?
This predatory energy
is disrupting the synergy
of Us.
Why do humans
long so deeply
for the things
that keep them weeping?
Beaten down
blue in the soul
stand by watching
chemical clouds unfold
and you want
just one moment
or an hour of my time
before you go?
If I placed a mirror
in front your face
you'd still only see
what your mind creates,
a mirage
a wish
a death grip in your fist,
caring only if
you'll get to win.
Another notch.
Another barrel.
Another halo snapped in half,
this is the aftermath
of a sky gone cold
and here you are
wanting to
hold me.
v.k poetry
venniekocsis.com
copyright @ dbv publishing 2011
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
ADD: fractal minds for a fractal era/error
Bulimia: self-reduction through the eyes of the others
Sociopathy: economy
Stockholm Syndrome: or, everyone loves a good marauder
Münchhausen: recognizing the physical necessities of a compulsive liar
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
Anyone
who is selectively nice
is not a nice person at all.
One who is nice to you
but not to others
is but duplicitous at best.
How One treats waiters, servers, cashiers and strangers
is a better indication of how they really think of others.
How rampant the internet is with sociopathy!
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
In these streets gather grime and slime,
And an ideological undercurrent
That is by no means benign.
Indeed, this culture is rapacious:
Exploit, take, exploit, consume,
Endlessly, ever endlessly,
With no regards for when it all runs out.
This cancerous mindset
Is now mainstream.
It is default.
It is not only allowed,
But rewarded.
Selfishness and sociopathy
Are synonymous with success.
You are what you own,
And nothing else.
Your little words and little drawings,
With their little meanings
Mean little to anyone.
Pack up the books, the pencils, the paints,
Stow them in the attic,
And instead,
Slave away at something you merely tolerate.
That, my friends, is the American way.
By: Forrest Jorgensen ©
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
all vaugely demand echo
dead echo sideways all
vaguely insight meaning
unto lingering match-struck
scars says reminders are just
enough to forget. filters con
-secrated like saints to canon lore,
cardinals spell sociopathy in a simple,
sym-pathetic phrase: "Sociopaths have
no regard whatsoever for the social contract,
but they do know how to use it to their advan
-tage. And all in all, I am sure that if the devil
existed, he would want us to feel very sorry for
him."
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
acting all godlike by disappearing
the sixth ton of flax interfering
the crowd engineering their collective sneering
thanks for the cheering
it costs nothing for us to encourage each other
make them not about yourself but about another
yet what rhymes will not bother
make the obelisk harder
free speech in an age of apathy
they each set the stage for sociopathy
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
She has aged twenty five years
in five
the lines around her eyes
from too many nights
of crying
the downturned frown of her lips
from her love dying
Now she's ancient, centuries old,
the aftermath of sociopathy
being fake loved and discarded
has left her broken hearted
There's no filler for this space
there's no way to erase
the deeds of the takers
so she huddles in a dark cave
silently scribbling out her mistakes
loving the wrong ones
trusting in the wicked
it's a sticky situation
when the heart is pure
like children who love the hand
holding the stick that beats them
everything is gray
the wispy strands of hair
the wrinkled skin of her hands
the callouses on the tips
the false admiration leaving their lips
The blood has left her veins
It was drained by every lover
who ****** her dry
then left her in the pain
like raindrops can erase heartache
like the moon can glue the breaks
She's a cup, shattered on the pavement.
She screams she's hurting
They say "well don't."
as if sadness is a faucet that
can be set to drip so the pipes don't crack
she watches them disappear
because she's too sad
this is the trap
the liquid seeping into the concrete
as she weeps on her knees
scabbed from falling repeatedly
She's aged twenty five years
in five
Sometimes she wonders
if she's even still alive
or if she's watching a mirage
from a death realm that fakes being human
just like when she was
Nights spent quiet away from the hive
counting days until
the one she dies
hoping it goes quickly
even in her sleep
so she can bury
all the secrets she keeps
but for now its
comparisons and agitation
dismissive relations and aggravations
humans walking obliviously by
caught up with their own
uncomplicated lives
they press their heels
into flowers until they expire
or pick them to hold as they wither
She's aging sixty minutes
in one
and the process is agonizing
she didn't make this deal
to be alive while she is dying
in the rubble of the aftermath
she hears God laugh
v.k
copyright @ 2013 dbv publishing
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
Deceit, false flags waving.
Accusations, Gavel of Injustice.
Apate controls your mind.
Mentiras, Você mente.
Crying witches
bodies in the river.
Forest rituals
laughter and dance.
The Crucible, great Aurther.
White coated, glass-eyed
Judge John Hawthorne, you are.
Don't believe Abigail Williams
Salem witch trials commence.
Screaming ****** ******
Witchcraft! Sociopathy!
Don't throw me in the river.
Believe the innocent.
5 lives, central park 5
liars are adults, kids are angels.
Don't throw me behind bars.
Erro de diagnóstico.
White walls, white lies
empty promises, filled pockets
lamb in wolf´s cave.
Happy little pills.
Serotonin, mess up his mind
make him an empty shell.
**** him up, porque quem se importa.
White angel in white hell.
Josef Mengele, don't touch me
evildoer, you are. **** salute
go back to screaming Heil ******
Touch me once, I will resist.
Tell me twice, I will talk.
Tame me thrice, I will scream.
Trail of final letters, suicídio.
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 2:11 PM UTC
Politicians
are simply
socially sanctioned con-men
(and women)
with taxpayer salaries
and a teleprompter.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
After fear expires,
When love cannot fuel it's pyres,
What can remain but apathy?
May 12, 2022
May 12, 2022 at 2:51 PM UTC
Ever wonder how that guy in the papers wound up that way?
Do you think about why you may believe it's bad to **** people?
Ever fall down and lose the desire to get up?
Ever stare at a door because you don't want to be on the other side?
Have you stared into mirrors for far too long
in public bathrooms because you realized your mind
is somewhere in that carcass?
Did you say something you didn't mean to
absolute strangers just to get them to say
something interesting? Did it work?
Did it surprise you when it failed?
Do you feel emotions or just wear them?
Is your natural state humanism or sociopathy?
Do you think about suicide at least twice,
even on a good day?
Does your head scream at night so loud that
you can't believe others aren't deafened by the noise?
Do see others as putting toothpicks in the sand,
and failing to measure things that are ephemeral?
Are you alone?
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
"I'm sorry"'s and "forgive me"'s
Never rang less true.
I'd rather forget those I can't latch to.
There wasn't a dynamic, it's not intrigue
I wrapped myself up in your harsh words
Because I wanted to bleed.
If I could analyze this feeling
I'd say there's no feeling here at all,
That you were a passing fling.
I'm sorry that I'm not sorry for this
I don't have friends, you're not an exception
Just another number on a long, long list.
I see a galaxy of useless things
That I've set aside time to worship.
Bags of organs, blood, and meat.
If the boredom wasn't quite so intense.
If you could have pinned me down.
If you could have held my attention.
If I cared more for you, if I cared for you at all.
If I never got tired of your words.
If I never grew weary of answering your calls.
Would I respond better to commands?
-I have my theories on myself-
Would I thrive with my decisions in your hands?
If I cared for anything.
If I could feel more than amusement.
If I was less unsettling.
If I could curb the violence.
If I could put in the effort.
If my comfort wasn't found in silence.
If.
If.
If.
If I could remember artistry.
If I could fill these words with meanings.
Alas; sociopathy.*
*Insanity
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
****** Ignorance parks her brand new SUV next to Sociopathy, who barely raises a hooded reptilian eyelid as he sells seven Fentanyl tablets to Diversity under a narcotic cloud of monotonous insistent bass beats. Equity is quarreling with Under-representation over Authenticity in fake Wokeness, bellowing and flexing tattooed muscles as the Walmart security staff jiggle their immense wheezing obesity to the scene of the escalating drama. Onlookers are quickly gathering up all the Ukrainian color posters from the parking-posts as they disperse, grabbing as many free samples of THC-infused Delta-8 gummies as they can from the abandoned sales-promotion table on their way out. Uncouth plebeian tremors are undulating over the entire trash-strewn parking lot as filthy seagulls take wing, squawking.
*Shut UP **** ain't LIKE THAT*! shouts Urban Degeneration at her baby-daddy who spits cannabis-cola all over her threaded beaded extensions. He drops their child, Criminalisha, still strapped into her carrier, onto the pavement and lunges at Urban D.
*I'ma hafta **** you UP now, ***** murmurs Poochie tha Kontrolla (aforementioned baby-daddy) and proceeds to tie her hair extensions to the handle of her SUV. He bites her hand until she drops the keys, which he grabs and then he jumps into the driver's seat. The engine roars.
Meanwhile, in the gathered crowd of onlookers, Miss Cultural-appropriation berates an old man for wearing a rice-paddy shade hat on a cloudy day when he only .05 percent Asiatic. The Walmart security staff have mistakenly sat upon and handcuffed one of their own who screams for his meds and therapy canine. As police sirens are heard approaching, America Corpulenta rolls her fat bloodshot eyes and launches her immense rolls of adipose tissue into orbit towards the international space-station.
*My interstellar-ass rocket gone KICK you ******* lil' space station you racist-ass bigot*, she yells to no one in particular . . .
And America, although no one there realized it, was indeed GREAT.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 7:48 PM UTC
There it is...
I can feel it!
Something great
Is happening...
Better than any
Pill or shot.
It's so real; it...
Feels so hot!
What's this feeling?
Such emotion!
Senses reeling,
Such devotion!
No more guilt
Or remorse,
Or regret!
Finally, my
Insanity
Is something
I GET.
Sociopathy.
I have no regrets.
But I still feel
Depression.
There's nothing left.
Just this
Aggression.
If I go to sleep
I wake up
And I weep.
But you disrespect,
And you'll wake
In the street.
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 1:48 AM UTC