"therapeutical" poems
Music is the food for my soul
It nourishes and feeds,
Fills it to its desire.
Therapeutical in all ways.
Drains negativity,
All the anger, all the rage.
When it speaks the truth,
You know it's real
Know they've been through what you're going through.
The words carry the ocean
So much to offer,
And even more to discover
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
You know poetry is your life
when you initially wake
and you're already in a conditioned mind state
reciting lines in your head
You know poetry is your life
when you go to bed
and rhymes are drifting you
away into a sleeping state
You know poetry is your life
when you are driving along
and you suddenly pull over
just to scribble down some narrative thoughts
You know poetry is your life
when you are at work
and you refrain from doing your job
just so you can jot down some formal expression
You know poetry is your life
when you are reading the mail
and even names and numbers
inspire a distinctive phrase
You know poetry is your life
when thy words of choice
become rapid fluency
and part of the Shakespearean language
You know poetry is your life
when random collections seamlessly take over
and are scattered everywhere
from journals, to loose papers, hard drives, & accumulating memory
You know poetry is your life
when you begin to realize
and everyday you must traditionally release
the spoken word writes to its divine legacy
You know poetry is your life
when you are typing away
and all of a sudden,
you lose your precious work
yet you can still retrieve the files
from one's own mental database
Poetry is your life
Life is your poetry
Whether you live a good one
Whether you live a bad one
Poetry is real
Poetry is fake
What is it really?
What is it not?
Poetry is your life
A therapeutical salvation
Cycle through the emotional manifestation
Peddle away from the soul's padlock
A spiraling staircase that leads you to freedom
The universal process of exhibiting experience
It's a divine intervention
Revelations of truth and discovery
Creating artful expression of one's existence
You know poetry is your life
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
..Music is my inspiration,
It fuels my drive, my goals, and it is my motivation,
My determination, enduring and undying,
I could say that I don't need it but I know that I'd be lying.
Make it without trying, its everywhere you go,
inside everything you see, it's in everyone you know.
And what a thing to hear, go tell everyone that's near, both enemies and peers, have no fear,
Here's a cheer, even if you don't drink, grab a beer,
hear ye, hear ye, come, thee and listen,
Music is my medicine, to spread it is my mission.
And if I do succeed and infect a single soul,
I hope that it's contagious and the virus starts to grow,
And soon everyone will know, whether young or really old,
That time might heal all wounds but music's therapeutical,
So bask in all its greatness, relax and just embrace it,
Music's all around us, it's surrounding and amazing.
Music's such a blessing, don't you all agree?
Music is my armor when the world's attacking me,
Without it, I'd be crazy, how'd I ever get so lucky?
Me and music go together like a bath and rubber duckies.
To provide you with some sort of deeper mental stimulation.
From the Master, Uniquely Specializing In Creation
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
I go to a party.
You ask to come along.
You join us, you make a mess, we leave and then return...
I try to help.
I always try to help.
I have to take you home, in the end.
You apologise profusely, but I deny your apologies.
I am happy to help.
I feel useful, for once.
Comforting friends is one of the few ways in which I manage to feel useful.
You get home safe.
I'm relieved.
But then she saddens...
She tries to laugh it off, as she says that she's not okay.
As soon as I let her know that it's okay to not be okay, she loses it.
I hold her.
I hold her so tightly.
I rub her arm and pull her body closer to mine.
She feels warm, but I can only imagine how cold she is on the inside.
I make an attempt, but I have no clue how to cheer her up.
If I'm honest, I don't think that she needs to be cheered up at all.
She needs to feel this pain.
She is so incredibly strong and I know that she should let herself feel it.
She needs to accept that it's over.
He's gone.
It's terrible, but he's ******* gone.
"It's sore, it's so sore," she tells me, through her sobs...
I pull her closer still.
I won't ever let her feel this hurt again.
I love her.
More and more friends gather around us and they all love her as much as I do.
As much as he should.
*That ******* ****
We cheer her up, temporarily, and she moves back onto the dancefloor.
They all dance and I go for some air.
They tell me that I am a man in their eyes.
I thank them, and I mean it, yet I can't help but feel sort of off...
I cherish their words, of course, but it shouldn't have to be like this.
I need a distraction.
Whether it be blood trickling down my arm, or smoke filling up my lungs, I want to **** it.
I want to **** this dysphoria.
This feeling of being wrong.
I'd love to feel right, for a change.
Why am I such an outcast?
I don't stand out, because no one sees me, but I definitely don't fit in...
I just want to be myself, inside and out, but I don't have the consent to do so.
They should've realised by now that this is what I need.
I need help.
I need more than just beautiful friends and family and alcohol and pain...
I need reassignment, not just reformation.
I need medical help, not just therapeutical.
I need love, not just care.
Love...
True love.
Sure, the thought counts, but I am in need of one ******* gesture.
One in particular.
I need it to be consensual.
You give me consent to kiss you.
I argue.
YOU DON'T WANT ME.
But you swear that you do.
"I don't want you to feel things," you admit, with tears flooding down your face.
Well, neither do I!
But I can't ******* help it.
I should really sleep, but now I need to feel things.
Something.
Anything.
Even if it is just the tears that I'm crying.
At least it's something.
But sometimes nothing is better than something.
I think we both need to remember that.
So forget your apologies.
I apologise.
I can't feel anything anymore...
I just want to feel euphoria.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
*So beautiful,
& therapeutical
A circle full of life
Just like the boy
I adore the most
An orange sun in my sky*
*But some things come to an end
So the sun bids goodbye
Just like my feelings
That fade..
& slowly die*
J.H.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Today in an ****** epidemic,
Little feeling empathetic.
Empathetic for the young lives,
Affected by this epidemic.
Mothers, fathers popping pills to make them feel,
If it’s okay according to the FDA then this is a real ordeal.
Inflicting pain on the young hearts
Families once whole, now ripped apart, hard.
For pain they call it therapeutical,
In reality place the blame on Pharmaceuticals.
The doctors who prescribed the pills for pain,
Only for the addictiveness to take over the brains,
The brain keeping us sane until we swerve a little too far out of our lane,
Into the rubble the car crashes,
You know you’re in trouble when family dynamic is nothing but ashes,
Once a loving mother, father, sister, brother.
Now they can’t remember one another.
A simple prescription turning into a burden, an addiction.
Your once young teenage daughter
Until the day we caught her.
Locking her door,
Always wanting more.
It began simple with Marijuana,
Then someone asked, “You wanna?”
This will make you feel nice,
But she never asked, at what price…
A simple anxiety pill, Xanax,
Then everything downhill, she panicked.
A legal prescription “Medicine”
Quote from Tomas Edison,
“I have not failed, I’ve just found 100 ways that won’t work,
But with a smirk
Now she’s aware, that is the perk.
That’s the confliction, the confliction with the concept of addiction,
Definition of addiction, the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity.
Now that’s the subscription, you subscribed to the addiction.
Paying for the new issue monthly
Only the best for you honey.
Full ride scholarship,
Until she slipped.
All the way down, rock bottom.
Hit the ground, she couldn’t hear them.
Screaming for her to stop,
Until the day she climbed to the rooftop,
She didn’t ever fall,
Maybe it would have been best for her after all,
If she jumped to let go,
Because after all we know how far she’ll go.
The constant desire,
The desire to light the fire,
The fire under her pipe, doing what the monster said was right.
The finding of the final stage, the monster,
The true destruction of your once perfect girl.
She took the blame,
Her mother claimed it was her who felt the pain,
The pain forcing her to take the blame when it was just her best interest to maintain,
Keep her brain happy before she go insane,
Insane from all the pain that a simple pill caused,
She’s simply trying to maintain…
Do we blame the victim?
Push them down kick them?
The true destruction of her mind,
Something legal,
Yet truly evil.
If it’s FDA approved,
Is it really okay to do?
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
Lumbago awakened me in tears
of pain and fear of intensifying
acuteness, worsening condition
compelling mind to impose
therapeutical distraction,
persuading fantasy to create
spontaneous cuttings of pictures,
papers, magazines, old national
geographic dreams scopelessly selected
waiting on ideas to sparkle a theme
from coffee, cigarettes and analgesics.
Human evolution standing behind bars,
as I ponder on the meaning not
of the artwork but its making,
for I have no walls to hang
the sticky assemblage and haven’t
had them for a while. Used to clothes
in suitcases, books on other people’s
shelves, memories in shoeboxes,
the essence of my being in a body.
Oh walls! So longed for by humanity
urging to ***** building distance one
brick at the time, compartmentalising
individuals looking for pseudo shelter
under roofs, spurious safety behind
ramparts, four to enclose shame
for their actions, inconsiderate
behaviour of the willingly blind.
Yet what if there weren’t any walls?
People unable to neglect the sorrow
of their neighbours for they’re standing,
just by them, no drawing the curtains
no locking the doors, no closing
the gates. People inhabiting open
landscapes, bonded by necessity to engage
in living together, for unity is strength.
No wonder why our kind is so fragile today.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC