Psychological Poems | Examples of Psychological Poetry

Into the abyss I look in to see Peeking over, to discern Her looking up at me. Reptile cold and slithe, I slither through the dewy blades, And writhley race across the glade. A lumping creature, Limpling, legless loping, Filled with their plastic dopamines. Wet with amnion, glistening, Halting in the flatlands, No colour lights my way, My brain is shriveled, stupid Human...

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So what’s the plot if 6 turns 9 On this old rainy day What’s looming up behind the line What you don’t have to say Its way too obvious for words And silence fills the air Only disturbed by chatting birds There’s always life out there. ...

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It’s about time not to count on time Its always here to go on Cut down the reasons from a rhyme In case the reasons don’t look strong They’re getting old with every line We do the same, to some extent A slice of lemon, glass of wine Forgotten messages unsent. ...

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I stepped outside, feeling low. There, before me, stood a crow. He cooly looked me up and down as he wore a beaky frown. I wondered, would I lose my blues if I could wear this bird's shoes? Would his life be more complete, he asked, if he could have my seat? But I wasn't sitting on a seat, and no shoes were...

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secrets isolation ultimately bloom brightly connecting in spite of all odds when true spirits prevail...

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Oh my, why did I just say "intestine"? They say that life is all predestined. Once, the initial conditions are set, we can know what hasn't happened yet. The laws of physics flawlessly operate on atoms to determine our fate, which in turn has its impact on hormones, dendrites, and axons - which play out endless variations of the same themes and conversations. I'm old...

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You may say I'm crazy but as it takes one to know one do you have what I've got if I am are you too and am I nuts to think I'm not the shrink he's not telling despite all my yelling he only asks how it makes me feel it's quite a strain on the brain is he really and truly for real then...

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A woman sitting in an old house herself, counting paper clips. Every day, was a creaking workday that reminded her addiction was in freedom— meanings of being young, being old, being in love with the back then. She’s not a fan of not being a fan of new movies. But who can blame her for blaming herself? A helicopter that flies over the barren desert land...

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Before your clocks, before your name/ Before dust whispered into bone/ There was light-I was flame/ Crowned in brilliance, alone/ Not fallen. Not damned. Just other/ Too bright for Heaven's fragile sky/ They called it pride, not knowing the shudder/ Of a God who dared to cry/ They shaped me from the holiness' edge/ But chained my glow in fear/ I rose beyond their sacred...

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Wounds, like windows, when opened, let in light and the breath of something new. But it takes courage to unlatch what pain has sealed shut. We board them up, plaster the cracks, pretend the draft isn't there— but silence has a smell, and you can only hold your breath for so long. Sometimes, healing sounds like wind whistling through what broke— a quiet reminder that damage doesn’t mean...

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It's percolating from below. If lava ain't allowed to flow, you'll see something more abrupt. One day, it must erupt.  A pompous, boring oration continuing without cessation - trying to listen to what he said, a fly has landed on his bald head. Trying to suppress thereafter, impossible, you burst into laughter. An injustice, and you start to boil. It seems like such a heavy toll. As...

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Tell me how to think Tell me what to do Tell me if my politics Should be red or blue Tell me how to live What to keep or give And tell me what I know If I should stay or go Tell me what is truth Tell me what is lie Tell me how to keep Big corporate profits high Tell me how to live What to...

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You condemn me from shadows you've never dared to leave, Crafting judgment from fragments you refuse to believe. I wear your scorn like armor, forged in silent wars, And still you tremble—because I never needed your doors. You pass your sentences like rituals in a dying faith, But I know truth: it...

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Tonight I cried. The silence after giving was louder than my music ever dared to be. Six cards, six names—none turned toward me. I asked why. The void answered with its back. Tonight I walked into the open like a soldier with no armor. The wind was a warning. The world—cold, familiar....

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I, looking in the mirror yesterday, witnessed distorted eyes replacing mine; and, too, the lips and nose, as if a sign, seemed bent crooked, misaligned in some way. And, as I, squinting, gazed on that display, an unheeding hand groped at the outline of the coldly reflective glass confine. I watched it slowly mangle the red-clay body which, lifeless, answered my dead stare. Tearing...

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