Best Obsessive Poems
Press not to flaming lips your tepid kiss
Touch not this burning form with hands of ice
A lukewarm love can never bring to bliss
Nor will indifferent love for me suffice
Seek not with obligation to appease
Perfunctory in making love to me
Disdain is what I feel for “gifts” as these
Tis better far, my dear, to let me be
For if you not assess my heart aright
And think me one to faint with weak caress
You’ve not been seared by passion’s burning might
Nor tasted honeyed dreams that I undress
Hope not to bed me with halfhearted plea
With love obsessive, take a hold of me
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I met this cool dude called Jaffa
At the beginning he was so sweet to me
Sadly after a while he gave me the pip
In the end he ran out of juice and I had to squash him
Then I pulverised his flesh to a pulp
Cheers!
Contest: United Colours Orange Sponsored by Silent One
03~04~16
insomnia night after night
restlessness tense & disturbed
lying awake the mind modifies
mutates
preceding delusional dreams
consciousness remains alert
creative and mindful words emerge
falling like puzzle pieces
perfectly clear
brain on the ball
title transparent
insomnia creates
another verse
and so it continues.. imagination
inspired though sleepless despair
bedside lamps beam gentle glow
ingenious words emerge and flow
finally...
morning light sets insomniacs free
another poem is shaped
fashioned—complete
elated euphoria
compulsive fixation
communicating
another verse
Copyright-- Kim van Breda
United Colours: Orange
Sponsor: Silent One
Pathological agreements made from your spicy allegations,
neurotic contributions based on a fire lit from clay,
all the inescapable state of affairs from intimidating celebrations
my amber ways, your mania stays, controlling on display.
Your jealousy contingent upon my belated positive actions,
my fear portrayed from your rusted all-consuming conditions,
you've torn my ability to react in sanity, that's only a fraction,
I'm left like a prey from a tiger meal, a life full of constriction.
Burnt fanatic beliefs you have seen me as your property,
your bronze so metallic it shines through out the universe,
I need an escape from your unrighteous crowned monarchy,
you never knew how to treat me right, and put me first.
It has been stated from the fellowship I carry outside you,
I deserve fields of marigolds with apricots for dessert,
I made myself a promise to stay away, now we are through,
no more bittersweet memories, I am done being hurt.
Different shades of orange:
1. Fire 2. Clay 3. Amber 4. Rust 5. Tiger 6. Bronze 7. Metallic
8. Marigolds 9. Apricots 10. Bittersweet 11. Spice 12. Burnt
~Date Written: March 4, 2016~
I see neon orange
as it pops, rattles and jars
inside my mind, all the time.
It titillates, sizzles and struts
a solid, knock out punch.
Orange obsession, like a
manic brain on overdrive
squeezes it's juicy core
into every fiber of my
being, it reigns supreme.
I close my eyes and envision
an orange chorus of poppies
punctuating a country hillside.
They sing an enchanting song
while I dream of bright
orange tomorrows.
Written on 3/4/2016
writing should not become obsessive ~ but should always be expressive
Perfectionism
Preoccupation with rules
Orderly, rigid
There I’ve said it out loud
Having it does not make me proud
I get obsessed with certain things
Like writing poetry or buying rings
I change my compulsions now and then
Sometimes it just happens on a whim
I might want to go to yard sales every week
To buy old things that I will want to keep
Or go shopping for lovely new clothes
My closet(s) are completed filled with those
It was a man named Dennis for a while
Now he is just cramping my style
My hair is growing out right now
When it gets longer, I will cut it any how
Shoes are one thing I think I will want next
Cause it has been a while since my last fix
OCD has taken control, don’t you see?
It makes me crazy, but it makes me…me!
My confession, hungry with obsession to make you my possession and end this tension...
ALesiach © 07/25/2017
Every effort must pass through the peel like orange
the desired is the only way, there’s no range
and having a taste difficult to be bargained for any exchange
thus, anything other than perfection is mange.
Doing it right is limited, just doing becomes strange
giving a helping hand to keep things arranged
is like putting a spoilt urban model in a Grange.
such a soul is easily irritable but yet not ready to change.
Thy birth on January 13th –
cervical contractions
would not abate
the pesky master (papa), strove
to synchronize seminal bait
thence, forty-two weeks
after ma parents did pro create
imminent lviii plus years ago to date,
this present baby boomer doth
indubitably and inherently equate
nineteen hundred and fifty nine
bequeathed birthed mine kempf ill fate
neurological manifestation,
sans obsessive compulsive did grate
behavioral motif and analogous
to frontispiece per story I hate
of my life and hard times,
when all of a sudden out blue irate,
the onset of emotional nadir,
where ballistic ordnance bombed away
fancy free, innocent, naïve boyhood
decrying, detonating,
and describing me own Pigs Bay
Allied, linkedin, and synced Luftwaffe
and Panzer division invasion that clay
like materiel within southern cerebral hemi
sphere inroads usurped no delay
riding roughshod via synapse straits sporting
scoring sorties using every
axe n newer on dread did
Swiss hide dill naught
to decimate with spirited ghost
of William Tecumseh Sherman
determination tuff flay
leaving not one iota (oft times)
referenced as gray
matter unaffected quite aware
of rebellious confederated voices
yelling “HOORAY”
Sabotaging orbitofrontal communication
incorporating connection between anterior
cingulate gyrus cortex heightening activity
bridging (via atom sized pontoon bridges)
greater activity upon basal ganglia, which
synoptic description does nothing to alter
the predisposition to ingress of un control
able imbecilic, inexplicable, and illogical
fixation particularly during onset of puberty,
when an emotional kamikaze nose dive
at nadir of near lifelessness, the shadow
of me former self nowhere tubby found
on account of deadly symbiotic relationship.
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
www.daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
Once upon a time, a little girl listened to her mother read
fairy tales and nursery rhymes to her.
Fiction, rhyme and rhythm then took hold of her,
imprinting their enchantment indelibly on her mind.
Several years passed. The girl learned to read books herself.
Upstairs in her room alone – as her siblings played downstairs -
she lay on her bed, utterly absorbed . . . in stories.
This child had also discovered the magic of cinema.
Beneath the stars, she reveled in drive-in picture shows.
At home she watched movie reruns and eagerly awaited TV shows.
From the family fare of Disney, Bonanza, Bewitched, and Andy Griffith
to the eerie likes of Hitchcock and Twilight Zone, she loved them all.
The little girl is now an older woman who has spent
almost EVERY single Friday at a matinee since 1982!
Her taste is quite eclectic, but she prefers human drama, and good plots
drive her compulsion to see every intriguing movie or series that she can.
At night she is happy to finally drift to sleep.
Her mind can then invent entertaining stories of its own.
Awake or asleep, this poet's true obsessive passion lies . . . in stories.
May 22, 2022
For Your Passion Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Nothing was ever going to displace my obsession for painting in my mind.
A joyfulness I had never experienced before entered my soul realm when
I finished my first giant canvas, a mere week after my 9-year-old granddaughter
who was obviously a lot more knowledgeable than I about me, had goaded me
into “trying to paint”.
I finished 250 canvases in the first two years, but alas, when you are me, and
things get boring at new jobs within twenty minutes, how could even this compel
me at the rapidly moving pace my mind is craving?
When do you think you will tire of those word games? My husband dares to whisper. I
glare at him from my Lazy-Girl, two dangerously hot I-pads on my lap. I am in the throes
of playing Word Chums and Words with Friends, and I know I will be here, in this stupor,
not in the least bit satisfied for at least two more hours.
I stumbled upon Poetry Soup’s website ten months ago when I was bored. I discovered
All Poetry.com three weeks ago. I have almost three hundred followers if you count both
sites, and real poets, not imaginary ones, not cyber-poets, but real poets who know how to
write poetry are being more than a bit nice to me on both sites.
Since I hate math and biology, and loathe geometry, they will not be my next compulsions.
Whatever is, will have my full attention, much like my demanding husband, who is pouting
like a 4-year-old tonight has had for many, many years. I look up from my I-pads to glare at
He-Who-Used-To-Be-My-Everything-But-Is-Slowing-Me-Down-Taking-Me-Away-From-My-
Obsessions. How dareth he maketh noise? Welcome to the weird, un-wonderful world
of the Obsessive Compulsive Personality.
Sabotaging orbitofrontal communication incorporating connection between anterior cingulate gyrus cortex heightening activity bridging (via atom sized pontoon bridges) greater activity upon basal ganglia, which synoptic description does nothing to alter the predisposition to ingress of uncontrollable imbecilic, inexplicable, and illogical fixation particularly during onset of puberty, when an emotional kamikaze nose dive at the nadir of near lifelessness, the shadow of me former self nowhere tubby found on account of deadly symbiotic relationship asper the invisible nemesis – i.e. electrical impulses faux nattering nabobs of mien nativity whereat unseen thriving sensational riffraff quenched powerhouse ousting nestled milkmaids, or rather pressing said resources sans vitality into dangerous, frivolous, and horrendous self destructive antics, where ballistic charges drugged eminent domain former nerve cell size occupants, thoroughly re-engineering sense and sensibility with pride fullness and prejudice on par with dousing one with an opiate that completely upends functioning healthily, judging lovingly, and managing productively versus expending precious time and energy self absorbed into manic, neurotic, and/or psychotic actions, manners, thoughts, et cetera, which irrationality got embedded within the neurological interstices, which even as of this moment hound me akin to wild beasts circling ever closer to launch mortal kombat against their very housing.