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Best Psychological Poems

Below are the all-time best Psychological poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of psychological poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Psychological Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Psychological poems are below this new poems list.

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE by MO, Marugu
Psychological Lyricism by wisdom, uriel
Psychological Abuse by Harrison, Chikere
Psychological Trap by Tesfaye, Haile
PSYCHOLOGICAL ENZYME by Agtani, Dalila
Psychological sleep of the world's hypnotist by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
Psychological religion by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
psychological porn by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
Game of Life, Psychological attack of the midlife by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
Psychological grudge of sex and diamonds by Nelson, Troy Jeremy

View all new Psychological Poems

The Best Psychological Poems

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I See You

I See You...

Wanderer, wanderer, lost in the haze
void of direction, succumb to the craze.
Give ear to my madness, so deftly designed;
deception de-jour: aimed to muddle your mind.

Hocus and pocus no need for free thought, 
erase your opinions, your conscious to rot.
As sugar and soda your smile decay,
a hoax and swindle, then off on your way. 

Smoke and a mirror, please don’t look too close.
The truth makes one banal; drugs for the morose.
Illusion can conjure emotions untapped
a quick misdirection, now I’ve got you trapped. 

You think you arrived here, quite all on your own
you’re one of a billion, another sad clone…
I’ve stolen the treasure that once made you free
brainwashed you to thinking all’s as it should be.

Gobbledygook and hyperbolized drivel
platitudes, platitudes, mentally shrivel;
accept what I tell you, and not an ounce more,
wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore. 

07/12/15


Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015

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Advice

Do not look to me with questioning eyes
For i do not possess the answers you seek 
i cannot taste the bitter sweetness on your tongue,
or smell the withered flowers along your path
My heart beats with less rythm than your blues
i am unable to stumble through your dark corridors,
for you are poet undiscovered
Your answers are hidden deep within an apathetic pen
For you hide behind a painted closed window
Pushing too little 
arriving late
Not aware of your own relevance
Solitarily, feeling sorry for yourself
When instead, pity could be your party
Yes it is true, the world celebrates sad clowns
But you do not let laughter mix with your grey sky tears
i myself, see images of you poured out on limitless pages
Rearranged 
Sculpted
Until your words have substance 
Becoming living and breathing beings 
I wish you to reveal to us your cherished children
Birth them to a forgiving unforgiven world
Risk the grasping hands of rejection
True courage will reveal your annoited pen

Without risk 
you cannot
will not 
bleed in rainbowed splendor
Instead, days will become years
Yesterday will slide into tomorrow
All the while the world would be less
A shadow of what it could have been
In a place of unawareness
Oblivious to its own lacking
Bathed in deprivation
All because
Of a missing
Unexpressed
Silent
Unexplored
voice!

Or maybe
Just maybe
One letter 
A tiny little letter
will grow into a word
Several strung together a stanza
Several stanzas a poem
An honest to goodnes poem
Then we will all be witnesses
To the emergence
The screaming or quiet entrance
The proverbial birth
of a singular voice
of a wide eyed dreamer
Then you will feel that collective sigh
as other broken dreamers applaud you
For on that day
If only you possess the courage
all will know
That you truly are
and always have been 
a Poet!


For Tyshawn Knight's "Words of Wisdom" contest

Re edited version.









Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015

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Sarah's Story - Mental Illness

Sarah’s Story - Mental Illness
Sarah, the “Crazy Lady,” was a familiar sight, roaming the streets any time of day or night. Her foul body odor announced her presence, as she paraded around in her filthy, smelly garments. Walking barefoot regardless of the weather, in her state of mind, she couldn’t do better. Children teased and made fun of Sarah, reciting ridiculing ditties, adding to the drama. Behind her a lively entourage would follow, taunting and calling her names creating a sideshow. They howled with childish laughter, as Sarah hurled angry profanities after. An avid collector of all kinds of trash, she transformed her abode into a garbage stash. Sarah’s odd behavior made her fair game, to unkind people who had no mercy or shame. While many folks turned a blind eye, young boys threw rocks and other missile, at the roof and windows of the shack she occupied. Behind bushes, they would scamper away to hide, as Sarah furiously dashed outside, brandishing a machete, cudgel, or broom, screaming out curses, damnation, and doom. Like a cancer, her mental illness had devoured her brain, and before long, she was officially "certified insane." Most agreed it was for her own benefit, and for the good of society to be rid of this "misfit." But even though she was locked away in an institution, no psychiatric treatment could cure her mental condition. When Sarah finally died, she was unloved and alone; her passing was hardly noticed, and she was mourned by none.
Note: This piece was inspired by a true account. While we have made great strides in the study of mental illness and understanding it, unfortunately negative attitudes and beliefs toward people who have mental health conditions are still common. Thus, as a society, we still have a long way to go to improve our attitudes and to show more caring and compassion for those who suffer from various types of mental illness.


Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2015

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The Solstice Door

The light is coming and I wish you well...

Behind the running, running man the land
Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry
Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone
Inscribing solemn circles in the sky
There is no time to take a backward look
Just running, running, running, running blind
He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove
With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind
He runs with only hope in empty hands
All faint of heart, with life blood running cold
The chill of winter earth beneath his feet
All water turned to ice in frozen fold
All out of breath with minutes yet to live
He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew
Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door
Described in tales the bards and ancients knew
 ‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade
All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls
And in the glade there stands a single stone
And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls
And there, within the shadow’s light he sees
That which before him other men have found
A stairway leading down in to the earth
A dark descending path in to the ground
No way but down now, this the only way
He gathers one last breath, and full of fear
Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps
That lead towards the portal of the year
How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair
That shadow down, down to the Solstice door
To where, beneath the door a chink of light
Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor
He sits upon the bottom step to rest 
Reflect, and contemplate the year behind
And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit
And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind
Forget me not, she sings; I am still here
I wait for you, for life to shift and stir
And through the keyhole and the chink there blows
A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir
Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face
The promise of new life upon her breath
Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step
For she has saved him with her love from death
Another year dies, another lives
He sits and waits; she watches from afar
And as he waits the light in darkness shifts
And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…

by Gail


 







Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2015

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PERCEPTION

   PERCEPTION

Before the abyss, I had it all
Letting go of all I see
My friend, I hope our time won't end
It took a short time for you to notice 
Without knowing who I am 
We talked, we became friends

Connecting the dots, missing every line
Connect them and figure me out
Randomly it comes your way
Underneath a never known chemistry
Ask me to stay and I may
Grinding your teeth into my way
Cut out my eyes, and store them up
A tongueless mouth, nothing to say

Maybe by tomorrow you will forget
Losing myself in my own conversation
Hiding behind my one big regret
Don't know, Don't care
You had me open up
A book I closed, knowledge lost

No need to see 
A mystery called deception
What I am cannot be seen with the naked eye
Along came you using your *ucked* up perception
The ability you miss use
making sense of this connection
A process you carry with your own  patterns
You asked, you listened,  without making assumptions
A taste to take off my shoulders, 
To release an error locked in my Asylum
I myself am enjoying the insights about him
He's got me convince, using his perception
               
  :)
SKAT


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010

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The Pain Game

Why do people, want to cause
Other people pain
Where is the Love 
That will break the chain

Someone says something
Then it's tit-for-tat
I've played this before
We all know the score
Now who's up at bat

I think it's time, for us to play
The self healing game
Before there's no one, left
Around to blame

One that's more thoughtful
And much less insane
Let's reach for the Sun
And help everyone
Come out of the rain

All we have, is this fleeting chance
To get this right
No time for jealousies 
No time to fight

Don't say, that you're sorry
Don't seek to forgive
Just start here today
And throw it away
And learn how to live
 






Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

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In the bed they make

And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!

When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger

Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact

They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood

Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”

Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings

Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited

They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads

Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies

…

And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?

When will the flinty sheep 
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began

Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands

©Drake J. Eszes


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

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AN EXISTENTIALIST ASKS---WHAT IS LIFE

What is life?

Euphonies, cacophonies and chromosomal anomalies
intertangled destinies and illusive methodologies 

Occurring in obscure dimensionless time
Millenniums fertilized to create the sublime

Perceived by ideations so pure it would seem
To exist beyond mind and to all in between. 

Lingering as lore to an all distant past
There is no redo, there is no redraft.

The questions, the answers so rightly proclaimed
are composed and transported by thoughts still unnamed.

In limited struggle, the moments unspent 
Become the result of a living lament.

In what and wherefore and why and with whom
we unwrap our existence in this paradoxical womb

Can we find meaning, a clear sign that we see
inclusive to all, this existential decree.

From naught made of all and conceived in a star,
we landed on earth, neither near nor afar

For reasons unknown and telegnosis unclear,
These salient projections are all jockeyed by fear

We stand in the way of unknowing surmise
And find the world is still much a surprise.

A quest overwhelming in distressed sanity
For answers not known play havoc to vanity.

To end these remarks with a questionable phrase
all becomes known in 'one of these days.'


SYNOPSIS
From the moment of birth to when we die, life presents us with dilemmas and questions that amuse, titillate and confuse us.  As we get older, we realize that what we thought we knew was all pure conjecture.  This poem is meant to reflect  the myriad of disjointed thoughts that  have run through my mind throughout the years.  The "why me?" and "what is my purpose in life?" questions usually are met with ambiguity and incoherence.
Many of us are beleaguered with these conceits and although some find solace in religion, for people like me it becomes an existential never ending struggle.  

CAK 8-18-2013


Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013

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Make It Count

line count and word number are equal in this selection....

"Make It Count"
by:  Eric L. Boddie

A
Man may
Come to play
But if you say
Oh no baby, not today
Do you think he would stay
Or would he go so far away
In search of another lover he could lay
Doing everything associated with rolling in that infamous hay
And if push came to shove, maybe he would pay
To relieve all the stress stemming from your hips' distant sway
Because something must give, there are more than fifty shades of gray
That's common knowledge to the freaks and all those upon which they prey
And once you learn them all, I promise your lover will never ever stray
But if you miss just a single one, then you may experience that dreadful day
Where you lose it all so try to find True Love and remember to always Pray


Copyright © eric boddie | Year Posted 2015

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The Hanging

The jury was unanimous
Twelve cried out justice
Guilty
It was just before the changing hour
The hanging planned for quarter past midnight or so
The moon was full, the shining light exposing deaths dance
The grim reaper was ready, one more for his collection

I was ready for this moment
Ready to face my freedom and my death
Long ago, a mirror shattered into twelve pieces
Twelve faces who said I have to go
Twelve past the midnight hour

Sacred ghosts haunting twilight hours
Whiskey filling the soul soon to be departed
The hangman at the ready with a somber face
For his duties he did not so much embrace
This evening he knew the hanging would take all effort
Of spirit and determination
To send this one of to his eternal damnation

He was shivering and I sensed in fear
As I stared at him solemnly in the mirror
We both eye to eye knew this day would come
The hangman and me, conscious of the sum

So the note was neatly written
The whiskey bottle all alone, empty on the floor
I stood bravely or maybe cowardly
Upon the wooden chair

The rope I wrapped around I my neck
As the hangman in the mirror was in despair
I patted him on the back and said no worries my friend
This, you see is the end of it all
All that we ever both wished or dreamed

A week or two later
They found the hangman
A rope around his neck
Staring blanking in the mirror

A note on the bedside table
Told this story as you hear
A man with a broken heart
Hanged because of his own mutilated reflection


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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A Love Story

The girl is an ultra-modern scholar, 
Belongs with an upper-middle class family. 
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly. 
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University. 
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare, 
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket. 
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....

The girl is very good.

The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...

The boy is very good.


They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The  girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his. 
 
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.

Time flows.
Love goes to another address... 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

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Asperger's Child

Some say you're not quite whole,
But I know better, Angel Child.
You live in a place all your own,
Free, unhinged, sometimes wild.

In precious moments you let me in
And I am stunned by what I see.
Purple trees and butterfly bees
And things I thought couldn't be.

You tell me of other wonders
In a voice so sweet I nearly weep—
Of Daisy Lou, a lizard that's blue,
And of mice that sing you to sleep.

Then abruptly your voice changes
And your look seems far away.
I have become a stranger to you;
You have said all you want to say.

I understand the pattern too well;
You have gone where I can't go.
You dwell there often, Angel Child,
It's where you're wholly whole.


Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2014

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THE PLIGHT

THE  PLIGHT
I never cease to ponder at the turmoil in my life 
Though I feel my soul is peaceful it is manifest in strife 
While the strife is all internal 'neath a self content facade 
Turmoil rises in the absence of at-one-ment with my God 
Is it merely my perception? Am I resisting taking heed? 
Should this life be one of resting, or is it strife I need? 
 
It should be a simple matter to find the purpose of this life 
Is it growth I need from striving or is it rest I need from strife? 
Is it focused introspection, is it altruistic love? 
Is it spiritual reflection, or is it all of the above? 
For sure it’s more than economic, yet while that’s necessary too 
Is it our souls’ evolution that makes it all worthwhile to do. 
 
I can see no point in living just to pass another day 
I must have something more worth giving, than just to pay my way. 
It would be so much the simpler if a man could know for sure 
What his purpose is for living, his evolvement to procure. 
Will my purpose well within me? Could a vision not appear? 
And suggest a clear direction to pursue while I am here. 
 
I’m so tired of treading water, putting time in ‘till I die 
There must be something more constructive waiting for me by and by 
I have fancied other options but none have succored to my taste 
Yet to continue what I’m doing simply put, seems like a waste 
So it seems the only option is to carry on and wait 
And resolve that when I’m called on I will not hesitate 
 
I have learned of soul eternal, on an endless ageless quest 
Taking various forms and bodies, each to serve its purpose best 
With each lifetime experience and with every lesson learned 
It’s one step closer to perfection that the growing soul has earned 
For it’s purpose is advancement, and to not be left behind 
In it’s struggle for ascension to God, the universal mind 
 
I have friends who understand me, superficially at least 
I have others who are certain I have succumbed to the beast. 
I have family who despise me as a traitor to the faith 
Very quick to, criticize me and condemn me as "off base" 
I have learned I must not judge them, t’would be a travesty indeed 
For they are only doing what ‘ere it is that their souls need. 

In the meantime, I’m impatient, that my calling has not come 
It’s quite clear that I’m not ready, sufficient learning’s not been done. 
The problem’s not with others, nor need they change for me 
The work must all be done within me for my soul to be set free 



Copyright © Vic Pister | Year Posted 2013

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Xanthophobia

Zanthoxylum shrubs with clustered yellow flowers,
Yolks of eggs and yellow jackets make her want to scream.
Xanthophobia ensnares her. It is sickening
Wakening to an aureate dawn’s bright rays.
Vehemently she shakes!
Ubiquitous are sunny days; she much prefers the clouds.
They keep her safe from light and her anxiety at bay.
Secluded in her rose pink room, she stays inside,
Rarely venturing outside except at eventide.
Quick is she to greet fast-falling snow.
Pedestrians abandon streets. Then she likes to go
Out to see the colored world buried in tranquility,

Nauseated she becomes just seeing people eat
Macaroni’s yellowish cheese, all things buttery,
Lemon cakes, bananas, mustard. It is a feat
Keeping herself calm. Sometimes she panics.
Jaundiced skin can do her in.
In many cases, she turns to Xanex. 
Hideous to her is this disease,
Growing, never slowing. Even therapy
Fails to help. Whatever can she do?
Emotionally frazzled, living with unease when
Dandelions, daisies or ducks come into view.
Corn, baby chicks, and girls that she has seen
Bleached a brilliant bombshell blonde so bold!
All of it - florescent dreams - are nightmares laced in gold.


For the First Ever ZYX Contest sponsored by John Lawless


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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Red mist

Red stains traumatise me with chains
my perfect mind resembles a yo yo.
Blood red rivers flow through my veins,
eyes lava red as volcanic mist sets in.
Scarlet poppies resemble those who fell,
as Venetian carnations are prepared for my grave.
Crimson twilight fills the horizons,
but for me the moon is like red lust.
Demonic voices echo like rosso corsa macaws,
poisoning like poisonous vermilion arrow frogs.
Carmine red roses have no scent and gradually
die along with evergreen carnelian camellia.
Memories of strawberry lips and ruby eyes
only inflict my maroon heart with further pain.
Similar to an Indian red cardinal without a mate.

20 February 2016



Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

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The Fix

He fills his syringe with poisoned words
pulling the letters one by one from his rusted spoon
They rise up through the needle in perfect order
"Disgusting"  "failure" "worthless" "loser"
There in the cylinder they mix together
until they are a perfect black ink
Although he no longer sees the words
their meanings are not lost on him

As he injects them into his arm
he feels the blackness
Ink travels slowly up his arm towards his heart
At first he enjoys the burning sensation 
as capital letters make way for the smaller ones
In the moment he's convinced they are lies
When they reach his heart
he becomes a true believer

By choosing to be less than he is
he occupies his excuses 
The I can'ts and never coulds
The poor me's
All the reasons 
he's not good enough 
The words stack one on top of the other
until his heart is filled with empty
Empty promises
Empty dreams
Somehow this comforts him
He holds tightly to
It's not my fault
It's just the way it is
His is a waking dreamless slumber
only lies seem believable
So he injects another word 
"Anger"
Then a question
"Why do others have all the luck?"

Someone who cares
Takes a silver spoon
Fills it up with better words 
Feeds him nourishing words
Smart, tenacious, kind and happy
He starts with small sips
one letter at a time
in front of him a golden bowl
filled to the brim with phrases
"You are Lovable"
"Anything is possible"
"Your opinion is important"
At first he is convinced they are lies
Until they reach his gut
Until he becomes a true believer
Taking everything to heart
Satiating his empty
Now he can see beyond what he thought was impossible
His actions speak louder then words
His life is not a wasted gift
From this day forward
He's living his life to the fullest!




Inspired by Jai Bankson's poem "The Habit" check it out!








Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016

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Inflicted Wounds

The wound inflicted, you will never see,
for it lies in the recess of my mind
Internal is the bleeding; let it be!
You try, but peace of mind you can not find

Who is the God you worship? Speak His name!
I want to know; does he condone this pain?
Is He the one who let you maim and shame,
and will he bless you for your proffered bane?

I wonder how you can to slumber yield
Does not your deed weigh heavy on your heart?
The things you've said and done are not concealed
Your conscience surely pleads amends to start

The wound inflicted you will never see
But there is One who sees inside of me

Eileen Manassian









Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016

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You'll Know Of Love

If you can make it through the day,
Never worried what others say,
If you can take the time to play
Yet get your work done come what may,
If you win having never fought,
And mend the stresses time has tore,
Or be content with what you’ve got,
And very rarely ask for more;

If you can make a house a home
And properly raise children too,
If you can stay and never roam
And do it cause it’s what you do,
If you can speak bad of no one
Cause gossip's not worth repeating,
Or stick to a task till it’s done
And never think of retreating;

If you can keep your life savings
And not risk it on a gamble,
And avoid expensive cravings,
And allow your friends to ramble,
If you can force yourself to cope
And do what it takes to survive,
And live on little more than hope
And the will which keeps you alive;

If you can hold your head up high
Or stoop to help those without much,
If you seek truth and not a lie
If you can heal with but a touch
If you can be mother and wife
And still find time for God above,
Yours is the Earth and a good life,
And what is more; you'll know of love!


Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

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Psycho Evaluation

                          Psycho Evaluation



    Physically unable to deal with all this stress
        a clinical Psychiatrist said that I am depressed
            No shat Sherlock you are such a genius
                10 years of college for this uneducated guess
                    Yah you're just an Idiot with an ego to caress
                    
                    Pockets full of pens and eyeglasses to impress
                    Yes we all notice the impeccable way you dress
                    Armani styled striped suit all ironed and pressed
                    It looks quite expensive only the best for the best
                    No I don't want to do your magic ink blotter test

                    You act as if by the Almighty you are blessed
                Just like the Preacher trying to get us to confess
            So how do I know this won't end up in my arrest
        I guess I'll just have to remove you in the end more or less
    Now who is the one that's stressed???...



                          
                              revised 04/27/16



Copyright © Brian Davey | Year Posted 2016

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Adele

Come to my boudoir Cheri
I am here all for thee
In red and lace
I shall entangle you will love
Entice you with lust
Tease you till desires run dry
You shall be the knight who rides my thigh
In the bonny highlands we shall have our romp
Meadows and fields of summer scent and breeze
I shall wrap you in my honey warmth
Mine, all mine you will be
Wrapped, entwined around my wee finger
Enslaved with love
My love
You belong all to me


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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Suicide Dolls

Suicide Dolls

Tiss a maddening state of affairs
Why my lovers don’t gas themselves to death
Have they not the decency to assist my endeavors?
Is my future to be written in stone of no importance to them?
The public would breath and eat the words
Of all my little suicide dolls
If only, if only they would find the ovens
Yeast you have failed me in these dire moments
Let me rise above it all
With poetic verse
Sing to all my tragedies
My death and re-birth
In the gas chambers of poetic verse


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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A Tortured Soul

She's bound by chains too hard for her to break
Alive and yet she tastes a living death
Morality and ethics round her neck
And so she plans to rob her soul of breath

The flames of hell are licking at her feet
In torture is her soul in need of love
A proffered gift of passion undenied
Would bring upon her wrath from God above

To convent in the hills she must escape
Confession make and plead for mercy there
Or else her heart and soul to crucify
And end the call of pleasure, beauteous fair

Betwixt morality and passion lies
The sweet seduction in a lover’s eyes

Jade Celeste


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

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A Country Song Gone all Wrong

I want so bad in Casarah’s pants
She said I had to offer up some romance
Off we went to a local dance
I bought her a flower, a beer, and a Big Mac too
She said not quite enough but it will have to do

So in my truck that has no doors
I apologized and said no seat, its on the floor
She smiled and sat, I gathered in anticipation
Of having me in her bedroom a waiting
Little did I realize I'd wish to be vacating

We arrived at her home, at half past twelve
She said grab a beer, cause my hubby is here
I said what the hell, your hubby you say?
She said, why yes where else would he stay?
So I grabbed a beer thinking ok this is a wee bit queer

I was confused, I will tell you that
Her hubby smiled at me like a dirty rat
He had some rope and a little duct tape
This sure wasn’t what I figured on this ol date
From bad to worse, I resigned myself to fate

She calmly said, what could you have possibly thought?
I brought you here, for our pleasures of naught
We will tie you up and start the game
We are the masters, and you have no claim
Now what’s a little pain? so please, don’t try to abstain

Tied and bound what could I do?
They had their pleasures without further adieu
I did the dishes, the vacuuming and the laundry too
Not an easy task tied in ropes by those two
Broken and tormented and tired as heck

I soon plotted my escape up north to Quebec
This Gothic nightmare must come to and end
Else these two satins will drive me round the bend
So I unbound the ropes holding me so tight
Managed to escape into the dark frigid night


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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The Hunger Game

Ana's taught me to count
not in numbers but calories
with a yolk-yellow calorie handbook.
The calories pulse with a heartbeat.
They are not dead and number-flat;
they whisper and breathe, real and alive.
A pebble-heavy potato = 105.

She's grey-gaunt, spinning herself thin,
this mirror woman staring back at me,
anaemic-pale and flower-frail.
But fat silently seeps, oozes greasily
beneath jutting hips, contaminating,
expanding like some monstrous child.

Consumed by the rituals of chew-and-spit -
food without guilt and regret, no threat,
no unctuous slippage of calories down the throat.
But hunger escapes from the body's bone-cage;
my tongue tingles for texture and taste,
craves chocolate's dark velvet melt.
"Eat," my body pleads.
"Resist." Ana stabs my ear with a knife twist.
Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist.

The fading scar on my left wrist
where I tried to cut out calories
is the silvering slash of a grin.
And Ana's still smirking, skewing reality,
sneering "You'll never cut yourself free from me."

3 a.m., bloating in the bathroom's mirror-bright gaze,
one pound gained; the scale's needle
jabs hard into catastrophe's red haze.
Ana's on her knees beside the toilet, guilt-goading me,
forcing unforgiving fingers down my throat.

Cardiac arrhythmia.
My heart flutters like a flickering bulb,
stutters like my tongue
searching for words to voice a lie.
Ana tightens the puppet strings,
pulls my marionette mouth
into shapes that say: "I'm not hungry."
"I've already eaten today."
Her voice is snake-hissy
slithering into my ear:
"How many calories? How many calories?"
Insistent, scratching my bone china mind,
screeching like nails down a windowpane.

Drifting dizzily through pangs and pains,
giddy with the headiness starvation brings,
air-light and feather-floaty.
My thoughts could take off like birds.

Always cold.
The Arctic gusts in
and I'm blown to bone.
My arms are winter branch brittle;
wrists could snap with one tap.
I wobble on frangible twigs
that barely pass for legs.

Ketosis: a sour apple smell
clinging acidic on breath and skin.
Hair strands are falling: spider web threads,
wisps and glints of coppery red;
autumn filaments floating off into empty space...

Drip. Drip.
I'm tubed and taped -
the needling invasion like soul rape.
A fattening elixir
of nutrients and glucose is cannula-fed
into my winter-blue veins.

Ana's jabbering on the end of the bed,
swinging matchstick legs,
her bone-brittle voice word-jabbing me:
disgusting, pathetic, obese.
They've stuffed me with Prozac,
fed me Diazepam,
in a desperate bid to turn her volume down.

Gauzy morning, a hollow dawning:
I must play the hunger game,
consume just enough to gain.
Discharged, I'll count my days
not in numbers but calories,
guilt-grubby and grubbing
for the killing crumbs,
spinning myself thinner
till Ana frees or kills me.


Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2014

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psychotic writer

A mad man 
Psychotic rap fan
You think this is all an act? damn
Give me a compliment to back-hand

Maybe I should be less complicated and more simplistic
Because a lot of the world are dim-witted
I call my pad wifey and pen mistress
Not for love, because I just got rejected by those 2 blonde twin sisters

They took what I said the wrong way
I was just trying to cheer myself up after a long day
I said “you wear the same clothes how about wearing the same guy”
One slapped me but you don’t know if you don’t try

Women try and change us into something we’ll never be
I’m the nicest, most damaged, flawed sarcastic psychotic man you will ever meet
I’m not as hard as nails but also not as soft as a lettuce leaf
I’m not a poet I just make letters meet

A prisoner in my own mind
So it’s like receiving a letter from a pen-pal from death row
When you read my rhymes
But I know you love it and class it as your best note

Already got spiky hair like I got a shock and survived the electric chair
Haven’t you got it yet? I’m not all there
But when have I claimed to be?
Just my pad, pain and me

Force the world to feel my rage
Psychotic writer killing my thoughts on this page
Don’t talk to me if you haven’t got a sense of humour
Ok let’s end the rumours

I’m not making a super group with MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice
I’ve been getting this pain out for years why is it still inside?
Got so much behind me like Beyonce’s ass
When she becomes 1 of Jay-Z’s 99 problems I’ll be there so fast

Wait hold up I only said that because it rhymed
His heart what has he done with it?
Quit being so serious I’m just having fun with it
Give me an inch and I’ll run with it

Before you know it I’ll of vanished
Timepiece on my dictionary cause they told me to watch my language
Try to understand me you will never manage
A psychotic writer, who’s flawed, scarred, weird and damaged

Girl how one earth can I be Drake for you?
But answer me this, if I’m on a date with you
And I’m looking at your boobs how is that a bad thing?
At least I’m focused on the boobs of the girl I’m dating so don’t turn it into a mad thing

Yeah I know my thoughts are a little hard to understand
But girl you won’t get my weird ways and sexiness if you date another man
Wait, I’m not sexy, forgive me I damaged my brain trying to understand you
I’m a psychotic writer and killing my thoughts on this paper is all I can do 


Copyright © Alex Duffy | Year Posted 2015