"tranquilizers" poems
You can sleep at night.
I have to take tranquilizers
to stay asleep and
I'm not the one
proclaiming to be
"The Jerry Sandusky"
of the correctional facility
and I can't sleep at night.
Lately I toss and turn
thinking about the
deafening silence
after a single shot
and the dogs
left in the house to
clean up the blood
before anyone else
finds him.
Congratulations,
that you are happy with
yourself.
Congratulations,
that you are comfortable
in your
pederastic, putrid
wrinkled and washed up
skin.
Mine is white and soft,
and I can't stand
to be in it on
Mondays, Tuesdays,
Wednesday, Thursdays
and Saturdays
because half of that skin
is your skin, your brain
but
like I said,
congratulations that
you've declared your
noble head
"Grown Up" at 60, old man.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
war is mellow
is the deepest of lies
nothing takes you away
from the feelings inside
men go to war
it’s what they have to do
a simple slip of paper
with horrors brought too
a senseless battle
bringing death into the night
just a couple of young guys
with a newfound love of life
we fight to bring peace
and ease troubled minds
a place so unfamiliar
that we’ve come to reside
the truth gets lost
so tangled into the lies
who the really enemy is
is something the government hides
sometimes it’s hard
to miss home so much
tranquilizers to take you away
from death’s single touch
a war inside the jungle
with nowhere to hide
quickly becomes a war
inside our own minds
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Can't sleep again.
Guilt in my head,
spinning, leaping,
autumn leaves,
bullfrogs and song lyrics.
Dice or bingo *****
which one comes up first?
Again, again,
remember to slow down,
and Olivar favorite parts.
When they were ours,
when we belonged.
log, sixty-six percent,
percentage of original,
original sin, seven sins, se7en,
Sin of Cortez,
tea, teaz me,
Olivar favorite parts.
Can't sleep again.
The Ones Who Walked Away From Omelas.
Salem, O.
Greyhound, stick-on roses,
cigarette smoke,
choke in my lungs,
stink on my clothes,
desperation in skinny jeans
and step-dads tranquilizers,
the open window beckons,
sleeping beauty, Rapunzel.
Tangled web,
Charlotte with 8 legs,
and a Durok below,
hounds howl, bellow, yodel
at the moon above,
desperate for a life long gone,
adventures never known.
Indiana Jones, satchel and lasso.
Or was it a whip?
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
projection of disemboweled guts oozing blood
dripping entrails onto starched white linens
hung in pristine precision, poisoned into submission
my demonic parole officer has come out to play
from the dungeon of hell's seventh circle
i swallowed a hive of maggots with my lunch today
forked serpent tongue slurping slime and slugs
unholy satisfaction from magicking fantasy into
ghoulish, gory realities and ******* tears from deserted lungs
the lion's dinner watches his stomach being eaten
dull but forceful rock formations cracking and crunching
disembodied hallucinations, presupposing predilection
i am the grim reaper's prom date, predisposition
gussied up in cobweb tulle and glittering larvae
with a chloroform corsage, what generous perfume
the skeletal dance floor creaks under my spinning,
groaning of lives sped through on tranquilizers
dancing a tango with Death, i smirk in dizzy abandon
the band is beating their bones to chalky pulp
music made from desperate self-destruction
projectile ***** onto my pedestaled ideas
chunks of last week's insights stink the room
the bile which processed them to rejection
is sticking dripping off the untethered chandelier
i watch them both fall towards me
first, in slow-motion glimmering
and then,
all at once,
i am below them
and we are below the skeleton floor
in the cellar of the scorpion's dungeon
that i escaped from this eery morn
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
I see you hurting and I want to help but I can't because I'm a piece of ****
I love you so I should be able to do something, anything, but I can't.
You say it's because I'm so far away, but I know that it's because I'm a piece of ****
Exhausted, you went to bed. I stared at the screen where you were
Where you were is still beautiful, more beautiful than anything I ever see for real.
Eventually I start googling myself, checking every name I've ever lied. I mean lived.
There's nothing there, not on google or bing or duckduckgo.
I'm not even enough of anything to anyone anywhere to be on duckduckgo?
How ******* pathetic is that?
I should be helping you but all I ever do is make you more stressed, more anxious, more upset.
You say I don't, that I give you strength, that I'm important to you.
But I know. I'm a piece of ****
Maybe you'd be happier without me. Maybe you'd be better off.
You tell me I'm being silly when I say **** like that.
Maybe you're just being kind.
What do I give you, what do I do for you?
I write you a love letter every night for you to read every morning.
I tell you I love you a hundred times a day.
I tell you you're beautiful every time I see you because every time I see you, you are beautiful.
I don't understand why you don't believe me.
Except that I'm nothing. So maybe I'll end it all and set you free. Crushed painkillers and good scotch.
Maybe some tranquilizers so my mind can be tranquil for once.
But I can't even do that, the nothing that I am; I don't have the courage or cowardice or whatever it takes to end myself.
Because what if I'm wrong? What if there is something that you see that I can't?
Besides, I can't leave you. I love you. I'm sorry.
I crawl into bed and feel the tears soak into my pillow.
I try to come up with a way to explain everything wrong with me so that you'll realize why I have to go.
I imagine your answers, I imagine your face as we talk.
I just want to stop hurting, to stop missing you when I have no right to miss you so much.
You're so beautiful. How can you not know?
Now, I'm thinking about kissing you.
And tomorrow doesn't seem so bad.
Maybe tomorrow will be better, maybe I'll see in me what you tell me is there.
And maybe you'll let yourself be beautiful to me.
And we'll have a chance.
Maybe.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
The keys of the piano slipped and fell,
tumbling into oblivion.
The taste of horse tranquilizers,
the slow drip of distortion...
it twisted reality apart, and into something new.
I breathe, and the world changes shape,
As the music soars across the church.
Another line ties my blood to my mind,
and I begin to speak in riddles;
Altogether unbound by all the things I am.
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 7:10 PM UTC
People have a way of living in my head
long after they're gone
In the dead of night
At the darkest hours of day
A vampire will incarnate from his grave
and shrieks so loud the sun takes refuge
behind heavy curtains
And every dream disappears
But I hope for tiny stars to shine
An interval for silence
short, short, short as it may be
To prove the people in my head are ghosts
and vampires live in hell
There is no hell, alas, outside my head
nor a graveyard beyond my heart.
If so, one's precious moment is when they're gone
To bed, or to the sky...
But the people in my head never sleep
or die..
I feed them with a mouthful of tranquilizers
and they howl even more.
What if I am the one howling in my head?
One can never say for sure..
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
Sadly, she was consumed, fated
long before I ever met her, soaked
to her precious core with cigarettes,
cheap wine and strong tranquilizers,
fighting the demons that clawed at her soul
whenever she tried living and loving
free of the chemicals.
Her demons I would never want to share,
although I was all too eager
to share her bed, share her days
without contributing what she needed,
and so she continued to drink
and laugh with that sad spirit the
laugh of the condemned, until
she finally drifted from life into death
and I hope, no, I pray into the peace
she had desperately sought while
confronting her living wasteland.
--
Sep 10, 2011
Sep 10, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
Eleven years have passed
What may as well be a lifetime
He feels these constant feelings of hopelessness
"It is depression"
Says the man
Engulfed by his ironically white coat
Time is all there is to push him forward
His thoughts, his feelings, his hopes
They are drowning
He is drowning; sinking into a pool of viscous waste
Surrounded by mates he feels enlighten
Blood begins pumping into his dying heart
Excitement and thrills arrive
Clad in their armour and ready to pounce
But spasms
Like leaking faucets they flow, stream
Gush out without a sign of stopping
The shot is too far and the javelin of speech prematurely shoots
The crowd goes silent
Parting, after glances are passed
Those of disgust
Maybe annoyance
He knows what has happened
Now he must fall
Back down, he submerges himself
Into the abyss of darkness and desolation
Social affairs are his greatest fear
An unconquerable enemy who neither eats nor sleeps
It holds a double edged swords
Perpetually polished with his soul as a whetstone
His entire world is crashing down on him
There is nothing he can do
The truth is
Despair and despondence are his only friends
This feeling
These feelings
He has no help
He can not control
He is left to die
His bottle of tranquilizers
It will serve more use
Than the man in white could ever have imagined
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
I was beaten.
...I was like an animal.
THEY knew I was an animal.
An experimentation for the tricks
they cannot do to themselves.
Yes...
Experimented.
A lab rat...
My skin was burned.
Their cigars were filling the air
as if the city was shoveled
from the ground
and...
was placed into this
Pandemonium.
My...
Pandemonium.
Belzeebub...
as I called
that huge
smelly
mad
or whatever creature he is...
Was in charge of the equipments
stained with my blood...
The room where the apparatus
are being kept felt like mass ******
The difference?
Every drip of blood is mine...
every pile of sweat was secreted
by me...
every teardrop came from me.
I was tormented for nights.
I cannot close my eyes
even if I want to.
Once you feel hell.
YOU might as well say
that you are indeed in hell.
Succubus...
The succubus also wears
a lab coat.
Each sound that the metallic
sliding doors made was...
terrifying.
I know...
I shall be abused again.
Or shall I?
It never made a difference...
My wrists were still broken.
My hands were tightly chained
on the wall...
putting me flat on it.
I was set to stand
but...
Everytime that 'Succubus'
WILL visit,
they will inject my knees with tranquilizers that
strangely enough
isolates it from being controlled.
I was weak...
She made me weak.
My wounds were treated with salt.
Rubbing them as if I was a steak...
I was a treat.
HER treat.
Her sensuality is driving her crazy.
No...
she is sick!
HELP ME!
I shouted...
from my mind.
It is impossible to beg for help.
No one is near...
Or should I say...
Everybody is gone.
My thoughts were ongoing
while she plays with my body.
My deep wounds she reopened
with her fingers...
Licking it like popsicle...
I was like a map.
Her tongue travelled on
every roads of it.
I want to fight back.
I NEED to.
But...
I am weak.
My only rest is another torture.
I am injected with a substance
that makes my body speed up
the healing process.
They injected me with that...
not to help me
but to make me feel...
everything.
Over and over again.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 1:40 PM UTC
He came home from the Middle East
A depressed and very different man,
After having served a tour
In Iraq and one in Afghanistan.
At one time an athlete with a hopeful future
And mentor to his cheering peers,
He struggled now to balance his memories
With the dismal, heavy weight of tears.
Tears that suddenly came from nowhere
Drenched his pillow. A panic would sweep
Through his body making him dread
The nights and the thought of falling asleep.
The outbursts of anger frightened him more;
They frightened his wife and children as well.
Avoidance and withdrawal only seemed
To aggravate his daily hell.
People and places constantly triggered
Painful memories of war and death.
Loud noises would send him through
The roof and make him gasp for breath.
Walking down a city street,
He'd have a flashback and quickly duck.
His heart would race until he gained
Control of his fears that had run amok.
The doctors diagnosed his condition:
Battle fatigue, or PTSD.
They had a list of remedies.
Of course, there was no guarantee.
Serotonin reuptake
Inhibitors failed to do the trick.
And tricyclic antidepressants
Made him feel listless and sick.
Tranquilizers and neuroleptics
Caused him to be more confused.
Prazosin and propranolol
Prescriptions both remained unused.
When the pills failed to help him,
Alcohol became his friend.
At least temporarily;
The haunting nightmares wouldn't end.
His family suffered along with him.
His friends slowly drifted away.
Who had time to spend with someone
Whose life was in such disarray?
His plaques and medals on his walls
Made his pain more acute.
His isolation made him feel
Emotionally destitute.
Cognitive behavior therapy!
That's what a doctor recommended.
The desperate man acquiesced.
He said he'd go, but just pretended.
He dropped the kids off at the sitter's,
Drove back home, texted his wife,
Held his pistol to his head,
Squeezed the trigger, and ended his life.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
How the past hides beneath the skin,
Burrows into the brain, gnaws at the soul,
Recalls my painful past, darkly remembered-
Waking dreams becoming all so real in sleep
When the mind is frail, open to memories, becoming a
Great and terrible grief in the heart;
Nightmares that rob sleep and leave dark
Shadows across my waking life.
There is a terrible ache within me,
Deep, dark, sharp; a small death that occurs minute by minute
Each day, every day without end.
I keep busy, filling my day with small tasks,
Keeping the oncoming night at bay until
Sleep over powers my body, demanding an end to psychic pain.
I know not my bed; my pillow is a stranger to my head.
Like a small child, I fight against slumber,
Fling the night from myself,
Fearing above all else, the torment of sleep.
Neither alcohol nor tranquilizers dampen the
Raging heat of mind nor quench the ache in my soul.
I would gladly die for one single night of forgetfulness.
Sometimes, I seek death.
Is it the end of life, or is only the root of
Eternal memory, a reliving of all that has brought me to this end?
How I seek sleep, deep, dark, without dreams,
Devoid of self, deathless until the day’s beginnings.
Sleep eludes me. Memories clash within my soul and I am
Sleepless. Each new day mocks me.
I wake before the new dawn.
The specter of the night haunts me.
I am yet in the night, remaing in the dark,
Still in darkness, still part of the night.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
The penitent Madalena, act has shut,
last century , millennium past.
You don't get to parade her in the streets,
her public display of remorse
for your crimes,
against her body.
She is not the one, in need of penance
or redemption, for these trespasses.
Sophia came three years ago
with this message,
stop your behaviour,
change your ways,
enough is enough.
Dick-tate to her
that she is lazy?
she never has been,
she wanted a job,
you forced her into slavery.
Got evidence when she was drugged,
no meaning yes? versed in repeat after me
s culpa mean
stolen education,
stumbleblocked all jobs Erin.
Relationships. same.
knudge knudge wink wink
pretend she would not work
you worked her to the bone
How greengoes veils of squinting windows ?
force googly eyes, smirking, big nosed , big ears
all mouths. No brains, No hearts, No conscience.
sorry not your mirror, go hang with those,
not joking, not clowning,
no tranquilizers that were not consented to.
She is glad you find her worthless
in valid.
It gives her an insight that is invaluable to her.
who is who.
Some of you don't get that.
She gets that you think, God is a joke.
Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 9:24 PM UTC