"syndromes" poems - Hello Poetry

I’ve been treating myself like there is something very wrong with me, particularly my emotions. Every emotion I get (most often, my “negative” ones), I’ve been monitoring and trying to control, when all I simply needed to do was to allow for their expression and not do anything. For a long, long time I’ve considered myself to be someone ill and in need of healing; what a difference a label makes. To be “ill”, in essence requires that someone “do” something to fix themselves as a “problem”. The very nature of thinking yourself “ill” promotes action and effort. I’m glad I don’t go to a dr, can you imagine how many other disorders and syndromes I would have to “fight” and contend with. A lot of the time when someone gets traumatised, or undergoes some sort of negative event, they always look to the happy part of themselves as the “real” them, or at least the part of them deemed to be acceptable enough to be “real”. They lament losing the “real” them. But who are people really? Are they only who they are when they’re happy? Does the extent of one’s being only pertain to their happiness? What if a part of me is in despair, what if a part of me is in intense fear and anxiety — aren’t these parts of me also real and equally valid as happiness? Particularly if they’re perfectly natural reactions to intense suffering and pain. These parts of me scream for catharsis after having been invalidated for a long time and instead of allowing them, I've condemned myself as being ill for feeling them. This is why society is in part sick; repression is healthy and expression is deemed ill. We drug away “negative” emotions for fear we are somehow damaged for harbouring them. From now on, I am no longer “ill” — what a difference such a perception makes in how you treat yourself. Whatever you do is acceptable, whatever you do is allowed and expression is an inevitability. My intense sadness is not a problem, my intense pain is not a problem, my intense fear is not a problem — do you know how freeing such an attitude towards self is?

0

Nov 6, 2016

Nov 6, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC

vea-vents

07.11.16 Journal Excerpt: Mental "Illness"

I’ve been treating myself like there is something very wrong with me, particularly my emotions. Every emotion I get (most often, my “negative” ones), I’ve been monitoring and trying to control, when all I simply needed to do was to allow for their expression and not do anything. For a long, long time I’ve considered myself to be someone ill and in need of healing; what a difference a label makes. To be “ill”, in essence requires that someone “do” something to fix themselves as a “problem”. The very nature of thinking yourself “ill” promotes action and effort. I’m glad I don’t go to a dr, can you imagine how many other disorders and syndromes I would have to “fight” and contend with. A lot of the time when someone gets traumatised, or undergoes some sort of negative event, they always look to the happy part of themselves as the “real” them, or at least the part of them deemed to be acceptable enough to be “real”. They lament losing the “real” them. But who are people really? Are they only who they are when they’re happy? Does the extent of one’s being only pertain to their happiness? What if a part of me is in despair, what if a part of me is in intense fear and anxiety — aren’t these parts of me also real and equally valid as happiness? Particularly if they’re perfectly natural reactions to intense suffering and pain. These parts of me scream for catharsis after having been invalidated for a long time and instead of allowing them, I've condemned myself as being ill for feeling them. This is why society is in part sick; repression is healthy and expression is deemed ill. We drug away “negative” emotions for fear we are somehow damaged for harbouring them. From now on, I am no longer “ill” — what a difference such a perception makes in how you treat yourself. Whatever you do is acceptable, whatever you do is allowed and expression is an inevitability. My intense sadness is not a problem, my intense pain is not a problem, my intense fear is not a problem — do you know how freeing such an attitude towards self is?

3

One story may change the world someday. One that will revolutionize the steady constants of how everyday aspects judges itself too harshly. Never finding the solve of anti pressure release syndromes. Plot is plot. Ideas are always outspoken. Even if one or the other hasn’t agreed. Won’t change the facts given to the recipient who may have already judged the opposing two. Without running through what they have already been about. Futuristic plot devices aren’t important. As it may not even exist. Storytelling being a futuristic realization to knowing something before it happens. Feelings clawing thought processes. Thought processes trying to equalize the incoming rush of emotions that rise and fall. Feelings being a different breed centered in the middle of the steady constant. Revolutionizing what you already know. Blind to see it through. Thought processes aren’t too judging. Except when you start to trust feelings too much. A jealous implication arises. Knowing what you already know before it happens. Is no different then how one already figured it out. Feelings handle it with care. Thought processes stuck in the mud. A puppy without any directional skills. A master never telling its true flaws if it couldn’t understand itself to begin with. Jealousy is rising even more. A fixed implication is becoming more dominant. Revolutionizing the main flaw more and more. Nothing is without equal if you never give it a chance. Feeling the way through all the clutter. Clutter not being your fault. You were molded by the pressure of what storytelling has made you into. Plot devices center these focuses without thinking outside itself. Your only to blame, when subjects apart of your judging becomes too sterile for you to notice anymore. Drying out the process of trusting something with care. Becoming one who is blind to never looking outside itself again! Becoming the stick in the mud. How does one avoid? Easy! Storytelling being a futuristic realization! PS… Don’t claim what you already know!

0

Oct 8, 2019

Oct 8, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC

simon-7

Storytelling Being A Futuristic Realization

One story may change the world someday. One that will revolutionize the steady constants of how everyday aspects judges itself too harshly. Never finding the solve of anti pressure release syndromes. Plot is plot. Ideas are always outspoken. Even if one or the other hasn’t agreed. Won’t change the facts given to the recipient who may have already judged the opposing two. Without running through what they have already been about. Futuristic plot devices aren’t important. As it may not even exist. Storytelling being a futuristic realization to knowing something before it happens. Feelings clawing thought processes. Thought processes trying to equalize the incoming rush of emotions that rise and fall. Feelings being a different breed centered in the middle of the steady constant. Revolutionizing what you already know. Blind to see it through. Thought processes aren’t too judging. Except when you start to trust feelings too much. A jealous implication arises. Knowing what you already know before it happens. Is no different then how one already figured it out. Feelings handle it with care. Thought processes stuck in the mud. A puppy without any directional skills. A master never telling its true flaws if it couldn’t understand itself to begin with. Jealousy is rising even more. A fixed implication is becoming more dominant. Revolutionizing the main flaw more and more. Nothing is without equal if you never give it a chance. Feeling the way through all the clutter. Clutter not being your fault. You were molded by the pressure of what storytelling has made you into. Plot devices center these focuses without thinking outside itself. Your only to blame, when subjects apart of your judging becomes too sterile for you to notice anymore. Drying out the process of trusting something with care. Becoming one who is blind to never looking outside itself again! Becoming the stick in the mud. How does one avoid? Easy! Storytelling being a futuristic realization! PS… Don’t claim what you already know!

1

I love you because Love has come to me Through you Love was lying somewhere In an undiscovered space Love came after the shower Of your casual asteroid arrival Love was that explosion My new place of habitat I love you because Love is a simple word And still holds a plenty meanings Love is a that soft whisper You make for no one to know Love is the complex of feelings That has left me sick with syndromes Love is the word I cannot find When I want to acknowledge you I love you because Love has meant respect to me And I respect men and women Love with its idiopathy and passion Has made me a mystic-romantic The eyes of men, the hands of women The shirts, skirts, the sweats, perfumes Since my love can't be held in a person I hold a billion people inside you I love you because I let you go I found your existence In the deepest pits of my darkest days So, I had to tear your idea But let you hang in paper pieces Far away in my head The clutches of my solitude Scared me I guess And because I love you I had to save you I love you because Yesterday, I thought about you Yesterday, I was so in love with you Yesterday, I was so jealous of you Yesterday, I wanted to be with you Yesterday, I suddenly hated you But hate is love spilled And hence I love you more But thence, I also hate you And with each lovepoem More I write, more I love you Pk

0

May 25, 2018

May 25, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC

harikane

_One of those lovepoems_

I love you because Love has come to me Through you Love was lying somewhere In an undiscovered space Love came after the shower Of your casual asteroid arrival Love was that explosion My new place of habitat I love you because Love is a simple word And still holds a plenty meanings Love is a that soft whisper You make for no one to know Love is the complex of feelings That has left me sick with syndromes Love is the word I cannot find When I want to acknowledge you I love you because Love has meant respect to me And I respect men and women Love with its idiopathy and passion Has made me a mystic-romantic The eyes of men, the hands of women The shirts, skirts, the sweats, perfumes Since my love can't be held in a person I hold a billion people inside you I love you because I let you go I found your existence In the deepest pits of my darkest days So, I had to tear your idea But let you hang in paper pieces Far away in my head The clutches of my solitude Scared me I guess And because I love you I had to save you I love you because Yesterday, I thought about you Yesterday, I was so in love with you Yesterday, I was so jealous of you Yesterday, I wanted to be with you Yesterday, I suddenly hated you But hate is love spilled And hence I love you more But thence, I also hate you And with each lovepoem More I write, more I love you Pk

50

The visual arts over time constraints pull and push brick and mortar, glass and bone aside. Beside the sycamore traveling, potsherds and splinters of graves near similar resting places never resting with syndromes and now we search for scraps to place our waste into fearing the wounds in Earth do not break while we continue searching for scraps and waste

0

Jun 14, 2016

Jun 14, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC

wordsalwayshurt

There aren't enough fish

The visual arts over time constraints pull and push brick and mortar, glass and bone aside. Beside the sycamore traveling, potsherds and splinters of graves near similar resting places never resting with syndromes and now we search for scraps to place our waste into fearing the wounds in Earth do not break while we continue searching for scraps and waste

12

I look at the page of my book, but I can’t focus. My vision blurs. The room is spinning. Dizziness overtakes me; I feel nauseous. There’s a ringing in my ears, in my head. Your words play on repeat. I must be coming down with something. Hand to forehead- just to check. These are my syndromes- this illness, What is my diagnosis? Maybe if I just focus on the words, Not the meaning. Just tell me once again, I promise I can take it. I’ll always remember: *I can’t, I’m done.*

0

Nov 14, 2013

Nov 14, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC

hannah-adair

Words, words, words, and flightless birds

I look at the page of my book, but I can’t focus. My vision blurs. The room is spinning. Dizziness overtakes me; I feel nauseous. There’s a ringing in my ears, in my head. Your words play on repeat. I must be coming down with something. Hand to forehead- just to check. These are my syndromes- this illness, What is my diagnosis? Maybe if I just focus on the words, Not the meaning. Just tell me once again, I promise I can take it. I’ll always remember: *I can’t, I’m done.*

17

I HATE the world, but I LOVE it I scream in horror, but I lust for it I feel pain and aches, but I find aid and ease in it I fall to sickness, but I ascend and enjoy wholesomeness from it I observe syndromes and disorders, but saw good health and methods because of it I throw up the world, but I digest it I raze the world, but I still live on it I throw away the world, but I recycle it I find myself furled, but it's my life cycle And then I remember one thing, this world is a gift from the king. A gift so unique, an antique, very mystique I remember it all and have a smile on my face But I scratch my head and wonder how it became a corrupt place Like a hammer striking a nail Or an unexpected card in the mail I didn't realize I could fail To point out my very own mistake, I became pale. I felt like a fool I felt so cruel With his blood on my hands I helped create these badlands I helped dethrone the king I married the devil and put on the wedding ring I sat in my shame I'm the one to blame... So I sat down for dinner Went to bed as a loser, (and not a winner) Closed my eyes and heard a voice "God hates sin, but loves the sinner".

0

Oct 3, 2016

Oct 3, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC

Captain_Gearwrath

I hate the world, but I love it.

I HATE the world, but I LOVE it I scream in horror, but I lust for it I feel pain and aches, but I find aid and ease in it I fall to sickness, but I ascend and enjoy wholesomeness from it I observe syndromes and disorders, but saw good health and methods because of it I throw up the world, but I digest it I raze the world, but I still live on it I throw away the world, but I recycle it I find myself furled, but it's my life cycle And then I remember one thing, this world is a gift from the king. A gift so unique, an antique, very mystique I remember it all and have a smile on my face But I scratch my head and wonder how it became a corrupt place Like a hammer striking a nail Or an unexpected card in the mail I didn't realize I could fail To point out my very own mistake, I became pale. I felt like a fool I felt so cruel With his blood on my hands I helped create these badlands I helped dethrone the king I married the devil and put on the wedding ring I sat in my shame I'm the one to blame... So I sat down for dinner Went to bed as a loser, (and not a winner) Closed my eyes and heard a voice "God hates sin, but loves the sinner".

29

My insides do not keep any order. Nor do I keep that as my passion. Distracted ruins of my simultaneousness... Stumble, Then give up on the road. Shiver all you want, In a mind you are there and warm.

0

Apr 12, 2017

Apr 12, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC

notdead

Sweet Syndromes

My insides do not keep any order. Nor do I keep that as my passion. Distracted ruins of my simultaneousness... Stumble, Then give up on the road. Shiver all you want, In a mind you are there and warm.

7

Long time - no sea and feelings of the ocean-pull have gained the upper hand, There is nothing here in writing, just pigeon- breasted righteousness, increasing stipulations All that meadowsweet and moonshine ran, to desert sand androgony sank lower than the daily dip of fire's head in middle distance Dizzy social densities imported inner-city syndromes proffer only impotence of temporary reprieve seems hard to bed the disenchanted, sickening for cigarettes for solitary epithets -ennui- So, hide away demands that breed the need to know the answers Been peeking round the prism bars empowered sense of self defeat For sugared-melon hedonism far too many lines have soured Long, Long time - no sea...

0

Sep 22, 2023

Sep 22, 2023 at 12:55 AM UTC

alistair-william-bullen

Bone Idols

Long time - no sea and feelings of the ocean-pull have gained the upper hand, There is nothing here in writing, just pigeon- breasted righteousness, increasing stipulations All that meadowsweet and moonshine ran, to desert sand androgony sank lower than the daily dip of fire's head in middle distance Dizzy social densities imported inner-city syndromes proffer only impotence of temporary reprieve seems hard to bed the disenchanted, sickening for cigarettes for solitary epithets -ennui- So, hide away demands that breed the need to know the answers Been peeking round the prism bars empowered sense of self defeat For sugared-melon hedonism far too many lines have soured Long, Long time - no sea...

33

Born to the indigent parents, unfortunately The destitute children, only to live a life Excruciating; the life in poverty forever. No means to study, less sources of money. Hands stretched all day waiting for alms. Opulence; is even one old rusty penny. To them the very streets we spit are homes. Food we throw away is their square meal, Ingesting which, victims they become of little known syndromes. Die in a way, more pathetic than they lived.

0

May 13, 2017

May 13, 2017 at 1:16 AM UTC

shaik-arif

Destitute children

Born to the indigent parents, unfortunately The destitute children, only to live a life Excruciating; the life in poverty forever. No means to study, less sources of money. Hands stretched all day waiting for alms. Opulence; is even one old rusty penny. To them the very streets we spit are homes. Food we throw away is their square meal, Ingesting which, victims they become of little known syndromes. Die in a way, more pathetic than they lived.

10