Best Maladjusted Poems
Something inside of me has died.
On several occasions to myself I have lied.
My blackened heart in the palm of my hand
Offering it to you just as I had planned
My skin infested with your touch
I can smell you in my clothes to which I helplessly clutch.
Empty and thoughtless, seamless and bare
Weakness envelopes me,
Infectious stare.
My skin burns
Cold inside-starting to itch
Normalcy is for what I yearn
My thoughts maladjusted-My stomach turns.
I take a deep breath and
I slowly close my eyes
Offering you another sacrifice
Just to watch another piece of me die.
Eye control darkness
Standing in creek consciousness
Eye pain portal
Me maladjusted myalgia
Hyposyncratic virilence
It tick, me tick
Bit me
Me sick
Loads shells, no click
Arabic apotheosis shrouded in defamation
Famine lives thru sublimation
Disgorge over the stern of the barge
Decrepid canal lazes with crude afterbirth
Charged with aborted sludge
Stripping the last shreds of life from the shopping carts that pose on the bottom
Fist-nose, lymphnodes spliced with tar
Near here the fear steers clear from afar
The fetid bargeman stalks the scape defiled
Drapes his rape on the nape of the last paedophile.
Don't point your finger
and indict me as a spoilt child.
You made me this way; you built me
with your blueprint.
I've seen you mistreat people around you.
You've spewed poisonous bile
in my presence so many times,
and I learned to do the same.
I've watched you batter and bruise mother,
now I've learned to abuse the opposite sex
You've raised the rod against me,
now I've learned to be abusive.
You never gave me much encouragement,
or reassurance when I needed it;
I never received atta-boys I deserved,
now I wallow in pessimism.
I've tried and tried to please you, to no avail.
You've never exercised or taught acceptance,
and I grew up to be cold and distant.
I'm a copycat. I learned from the best.
So it's funny you think I'm a disappointment
to you, I suggest you take a close look
in the mirror, Dad, and you'll see
your reflection. We are one and the same.
Note: This is pure fiction, written from the perspective of a maladjusted teen.
Date written: 03/14/2021
Classes started up again today. Soon, we’ll be gloriously stressed, and clocked-up on whatever. Our hearts will swell to the pre-med symphony - a frantic opus, composed in the key of no sleep.
In seminars for rising pre-med seniors, (What's needed to get that med-school slot!), it’s obvious that 60% of the students who started out with us, on this track, are gone - left for other majors. “I wasn’t happy, it was too much,” they said.
I feel a pang when I hear that undergrads we’ve shared a trench with have switched their major to basket weaving (‘political science’), TikTok (computer science) or Phys-Ed.
I envy those defectors, I pity those defectors, I envy.. Wait, aren’t deserters supposed to be, well, you know.
Meanwhile, the rest of us, the stubborn few, cling to the dream. It’s a waking dream, for caffeinated zombies, obsessive-compulsive workaholics and maladjusted wonks who neglect personal needs, relationships and in some cases personal hygiene (not me, of course) in favor of a goal.
Maybe there’s something wrong with us?
K through Twelve,
it's called.
Students and teachers
walk the halls.
From beginning to end
behaving like they should
Or else. . .
One knows that
the attic is filled with cobwebs,
of course,
and dusty musty old textbooks
discarded lessons and copies
of one's grade reports.
But the basement . . .
One knows
there's a cave below the boiler room
filled with old projects and paraphernalia.
A tomb lined with damaged models:
plastic skulls,
plastic brains,
and plastic hearts.
An abandoned asylum for the malformed and the maladjusted,
the deformed and the defective.
Stalactites drip growing steadily down,
glowing and sparkling
oblivious.
The floor is soft and powdery, damp cold
decades of ashes and dust
where one lands when one falls.
Strange crystalline music of dark nested spheres
repeats.
If one is able and
not wholly broken then
one may wander through,
past the poor wretches
who line one's way . . .
If one can wonder or wander at all
after one's fall
then one reaches the mouth of the tunnel and crawls
up
to a barn door in the wall.
A light shines through there
where
one may stare
and beyond others' noises echo busy
buzzy
cheer??
Once opened, it reveals the shopping mall
where graduates sell Their wares.
"Free dessert" is being given away.
Dutch apple pie of several varieties,
some sugar free and some without fat.
If one buys that.
A celebration seems
to be in the air
Halloween, it seems,
and behind scenes
the revelers come near.
From the cave and dark dungeon they parade
in masquerade.
Singing in unison.
Coming forth, as one,
to get their share.
Do you?
Fasten procrastination against the bed sheets of discontented motivation?
Sleeping into oblivion with depression settling in?
Becoming a recipient of insidious stigmatization?
Or, Do you?
Pull yourself up from the valarien labyrinth
of maladjusted madness into the meridian borders beyond a delirium of serious commitment?
Gemstones on a shoreline
maladjusted to the saltiness of fallen tears
basted in the din of sunbeam atoms colliding
the neap, a resting time from mortal waveforms
towed beneath the sanded plasma of sinking unblown glass
a final lash, a glinting sorrow, an eternal goodbye
so many facets unturned, a reminder of the emptiness
no shimmer on the barren plains of shore, a reflection
of the once and final aortic beat
In America’s Pragmatism,
the urgent question is "of" individual sanctity
now can be tweeted as:
“what is the Pragmatic or Aesthetic function "of"
******** or PUSSY, anyway?”
and "of" the 2 types of Humanity:
the Good Dudes and the Bad Dudes—
in the view of this “Trash Culture” or “Pseudo Culture”!
In European Phenomenology,
it is about "aboutness," about, for example,
the 4 kinds of people:
the Ass-holes, the Ass-wipes, the Ass-kissers,
and
those who **** all over the world and
come home as “Sir”!
some of those exist in the understanding,
some in reality!
Phenomenologically speaking,
persons should be explored
like an uncharted wild terrain—
a person reflects the society he/she lives in.
In an African Perspective,
there is only one Human race
in one Home called Dachii, Oikos:
Ume Walaabuu baate—
Creation began at Walaabu!
Nutu kana, natu akkana—
We are, therefore, I am!
safuu! oofuu! ubuntu!
We Africans are not uncivilized
We are civilized differently—
and maladjusted
with different thought patterns!
Simply put, it is
too much a "Progress" folks
too much to cope with
one is too shallow, the other is too deep a "Civilization"
to figure out
and too hard to focus.
Africa, oh Africa
land of Love&Light
happy to be maladjusted?
_______
Operational Definitions of "Eidos" and "Oikos":
Eidos:
-for Ronald Barthes "eidos" = appearance, idea, constitutive nature,
-or as a Greek term, it means "form" "essence", "type" or "species".
Oikos
-is a Greek term for English prefix: eco- for "ecology" to refer to three related but distinct concepts: the family, the family's property, and the house
Who said the ancestry of human knowledge is Greek or Latin anyway?
Can't cope so forgive me
I see the world in true form,
Not the fantasy easily reached and perceived.
Truth is the standing which resonates,
a strange sense of comfort
It is not negativity, but positivity,
in a Victorian fashion of bewilderment
It is the pulsating vibe of the bashful butterfly
And the satisfaction to the parched throat
Gently hypnotized by succulent refreshment
And self rewarding.
Though dilenquent among others
A raw sustenance, in solemn acquaintance
I am not alone, though inherit no home
And I eagerly await anyone who shares,
and begs for anyone in agreement and care
This is a DNA molecule and hair
He struggles with emotions
He struggles with emotional wounds
He struggles alone unable to share
He struggles alone slowly self destructing
For his well of tears is dried up he cant cry
He was socialized to believe men don't cry
He was made to believe men don't show weakness
He was made to accept men never admit weakness
He struggles alone unable to shed those healing tears
For his well of tears is dried up even hurt he cant cry
The soul wound festers making him maladjusted and bitter
The once jovial youngster now days is all gloomy and sad
The once promising destiny has now been poisoned by fate
The once radiance person now walks with his head cast down
The well of tears dried up but id rather he digs deeper- tears
Here I rise... Surrounded by souls but still all alone
Born just ramble and bound just to roam
Nothingness is my name and nowhere is my home
Here I rise...Like silver moons down the golden slots
So synthetic and superficial...screaming for the jackpot
Bright lights and big lies leave me stuck on the spot
Here I rise...Harsh words and hard times...just like a joint I smoke the rhythms and the rhymes
Riding higher than the heavens and then dropped hard just like a dime
Here I rise...There is no next time for me it's now or never as I become nocturnal as the day turns into night
I'm on the flip side of fear and on the wrong side of right
Here I rise...All I've got is just my word...wants they spread their wings
No time to cut the cord as a bad egg becomes a bird
Here I rise...Now I've tapped into a toilet where savage ones survive anyway that they can make it...where lions feast on lambs and twisted terror thrives
Here I rise...where coldness ones connive and they make their many monstrous moves one victim at a time
Here I rise...Where girls get on their gorgeous grooves...where the rubber meets the road...where blood stains the polished boots...where the metal meets the meat...where gangsters think they're gods
Here I rise...In salt pools full of screaming slugs...Going mad with agony like low down drugees with no drugs
Like shadows running from the spotlights...like melting ice cubes in the sun
Here I rise... Maladjusted and misguided...looking for that holy light still all alone and alienated
And when I ask the question...When will I leave this life?
There it is now I can see eternal eyes
No more sorrow No more sadness...Here I rise
hours fracture by
spigots clog every pore
the ideatron flickers on off
on off, on off, on off
flexing muscles and flipping through
maladjusted soft spots in the lightly lit dayroom
sometimes i soak in the inane and wonder
am i really inching closer to something worthwhile
or am i ever falling, flailing arms into the ruin of insanity?
but there's something inside me
it must mean something
it must mean i'm losing it
On some painted wall they pee,
Funnily straightening themselves like a tree:
The peremptory command of their finished evil tea
And now complete rejection of a toilet with key!
The guys keep doing their thing with utmost glee,
Diametrically feeling incomparably free
A bashing of Propriety, never to such agree
And daring of sanitation department or their frightening fee
It is pointblank, a sight to not see,
All too obscene a urinating spree
That stings worse than does a bee
And only last week scandalized Sensitive Lee
From just the scatterbrained Eliciting “A Gee!”.
The whole lot, Maladjusted Adults,
To be not spared calculated insults!
The tired and the hungry
the broken and the poor
shattered...all but scattered
a home without a door
South of the equator
exploited and ignored
squatters live in squalor
engrossed in civil war
Socially maladjusted
cruel dictators heavy hand
forcing many across their borders
beyond their birthing lands
Parents weep,their children cry
knowing these little ones must rely
but try as they try,and try as they must
unforgiving world,for them turned to dust......
When the sh*t hits the fan and the plates hit the walls
And Mummy’s voice screeches, “You ain’t got the balls”
The sound of wood splintering leaves kids with hunches
That once again Daddy ain’t pulling his punches
At least it was wood this time - unlike before
When what Daddy fractured was not just a door
And Daddy’s voice shouts, ‘I work all that I’m able
but when I come home, I want food on the table!”
Upstairs, the children cannot speak their fears
Three kids on their beds with their hands on their ears
While five year old Lucy is wiping her tears
And Tommy chants ‘La La’ to drown what he hears
But ten year old Gerry, wise, for a young lad
Has a best friend with a Saturday Dad
He seems to get by, and he states with a sigh
“I get to go places… and Mum doesn’t cry.”
With siblings sent ‘up’ with no food in their tummy
Because Daddy had to, “Have words with your Mummy.”
Gerry, would get them the food they were lacking
He wasn’t surprised to find Daddy was packing
He’d taken a chance when the rows turned to silence
Which had to be better than out and out violence
Daddy said, “Don’t creep about like a mouse…
from now on, Son… you are the man of the house.”
Lucy was young and she idolised Dad
Tommy was older and, for a while, bad
But Gerry now charged with his own father’s plan
At just ten years old… became a young man
And with Daddy gone to a town far away
Gerry stayed home till his mum had gone grey
But one day she had a new man on her hand
And Gerry was happy to make his own stand
Twas eighteen months later this very deep thinker
Let a girl get to him, hook, line and sinker
He hugged her and kissed her the day she miscarried
Yet he and the woman he loved… never married