Best Panic Attacks Poems
Lincoln never imagined
today’s white victim zeitgeist,
pouting persecuted supremacists,
their clenched jaws and fists.
Civil war rages in limbic memory.
Encoded somewhere,
the panic attacks and mirages.
Nobody is qualified because everybody is responsible.
So many whites have graduated from the struggle,
showcasing their diploma from the mill.
Lincoln never imagined
modern virtual vitriol,
merciless memes lashing out at specters,
infusing, inciting depravity among the sleep deprived.
These words are battleships aimed at the reviled.
The unshielded summon civility.
They beckon familiar principles.
But rabid cougars wait in hiding, eager to pounce.
All the feeble markets for platitudes have failed,
as subliminal cavities endure each generation.
Mental lynch mobs, rebel flags, supremacy’s utopia.
Lincoln never imagined
a 21st century cartoon president,
a white nationalist clicking social network epithets,
a whining overgrown tormenter
with a cult of Stalinist believers.
Where are the intelligible?
How is all this animated fury converted?
What is the lesson plan?
Who will bury the code?
How long this agonizing journey into normality?
Lincoln never imagined.
Published Tuck Magazine 04/ 2019
Poetry stew.
My poetry stew has ingredients of goo
The ass end of a warm drink
The chaser for an anti depressant capsule
A five o' clock shadow
A hangover and panic attacks
The tears of a psychiatrist
Blood from the hands of an ugly poet
A terrified suicide
A kiss never sober
New York City blues and a trip to a toilet after every drink
A friendly goodbye
A stool at the bar with your faith written all over it
Cum soaked napkins that turn yellow like your dying skin
Pathetic messages from people who don't know what you've been through
My fellow punks and beats, modern day philosophers
A strait jacket that fits
A functioning psychotic
A poet with messy hair who hates his reflection
Get me out of here
The lovely taste of a depressed man
Everyone gets a shot
Everyone gets a taste
Everyone can have a drink
Enjoy or be sane.
Rational me is capable and whole
Irrational me has complete lack of control
Rational me is happy and relaxed
Irrational me panics and cracks
Rational me views life in a positive light
Irrational me battles crippling fear without hope in sight
Rational me makes the most of every day
Irrational me wants to sleep the day away
Rational me is clear...has clarity
Irrational me is afraid…engulfed by anxiety
Rational me sees beauty and light
Irrational me faces a darker plight
Rational me lives life on the right track
Irrational me suffers debilitating panic attacks
As the rain trickles down the cracks of my stained oak casket
And it stains the fabric of my tattered shirt with the crimson paint they placed upon my lips
The shifting of dirt can be heard in my worm infested ears
As the skin on my thighs is being eaten away from the wood beatles
My spirit hovers above this nightmarish scene
Broken tombstone and twisted roses cover my name
Once spoken from your tongue, now just a whisper in the wind
Can you even remember the words that dripped from my trauma fueled pens
Or have they turned to ash like my sins that were thrown into the pyre
Choking on putrid soot as you lowered haphazard memories into the barren ground
Darkness can be so blinding, don't you see now
All those insomniac nights and breathless days
Gripped by panic attacks and mind numbing depression
I screamed, pleaded, wept for longing
Just to be understood, as I got on my cracking knees
Praying with bloodshot eyes for an ounce of peace
I can't breathe, lungs swelling, tears cascading likes waterfalls down my sunken face
But you refused to see the girl breaking inside this woman, invisible scars ripping open
A spiritual bloodletting
Now the final chapter can not be undone as the bell no longer tolls for a lost soul among the deaf.
''Bare''
Dead whilst alive,
Forgotten yet solidly visible,
Underestimated but still the best there is.............
The sound of disappointment!
I am searching for a boy long forgotten,
Left for the bushes, never returned,
Still finding himself among st devours of life and thorns of deception,
Running for the hills,
In search of his purpose.
My peers Doctors,Soldiers and Focused!
I lay awake with my hair uncombed, blowing trees day dreaming of what
would be.....
The stains within the heart visible enough to bring tears into my
mama's eyes "Where is my boy?"
So lam running and running,
Never stopping, my blood pumping,
My spirit diluted with doubt and impatience,
My mental troubled with anxiety, panic attacks .....screaming and
bleeding ,
I hold on! I bow my head! I leave it all in the hands of Christ! I
still fight.......
I am looking for myself.
Cold shower today - (early afternoon)
September eighth two thousand
and nineteen more challenging than June
dog days of summer test tolerance
to feel alive and bark at the moon
hypothetically imagining myself
alone in the (suburban) wilderness
fabricating, envisioning crossing pontoon
bridge while humming nonsense tune.
Jolt to body electric induces zing
unlike missus who cannot wing
subjecting her sensitive skin
versus modest bragging
rights of this faux king
please pas din me boasting,
but perhaps explanation
I shower without hot water
linkedin to aging.
Which (no matter cumulative
chronological orbitz around sun
just a number), the fleeting
passage of years doth stun
more so forces me to assess
mein kampf, retrospective
devoid of nothing merit but pun
hushing disappointment plus
self deprivation of fun.
Alas within narrowly
circumscribed realm stale
stagnation doth prevail,
I easily overwhelm
courtesy panic attacks of this male
bred avoidance behavior
(cue Pavlov's dog) hearty and hale
trained to withdraw
from challenging tasks
markedly pronounced when fail
my middle name,
where besieged psyche doth ail.
Fatherhood, albeit necessitated taking ace
sip of courage, sometimes
adept to chase
fear of unfamiliar, though
never totally erase
sing passive behavior
I attest infrequently to face
anxiety inducing situations
poise zenned clowns
feign amazing grace
me convulsing with intimidation
agitating, flinching, recoiling...
retreating into isolated place
while profuse sweat drips
from every porous space
heart beat does madly race
despite absence of any threat
exhaustion spent without
factual, logical, rational... trace.
Time and again work fraught
self into lather for naught
recurring soap opera taught
me impossible mission
to rinse figurative suds
unlike showering/washing hair,
whereby cleansing wrought.
They say boys don’t cry.
They say it like a promise.
Like strength is stitched in our skin at birth
and weakness is something
you have to unzip your chest to find.
I was eight
when I learned that sadness had a gender.
That girls get tissues,
and boys get told to “tough it out.”
That scraped knees get band-aids,
but broken hearts?
Those just get buried under
“man up”
and “you’ll be fine.”
I was twelve
when my dad said,
“Stop acting like a girl.”
Like emotions were diseases
and I’d caught one.
So I stopped.
Stopped crying.
Stopped talking.
Stopped needing anything
that made me look soft.
Because being soft
felt like being disposable.
And you wonder why boys break things
before they break down?
Why fists meet walls before feelings meet words?
We are taught to bottle it up—
but no one tells you what happens
when the pressure hits the glass ceiling of your skull.
I walk hallways with a smile that’s a lie.
Teachers don’t ask.
Friends don’t see.
And the counselor?
Too busy with the loud kids,
the girls who cry pretty in bathrooms.
My silence doesn’t make a scene.
It just echoes.
Some nights I scream
into pillows
so I don’t have to apologize
for having a voice.
But no one sees bruises
when they’re on the inside.
No one asks
if you're okay
when your mask fits perfectly.
And I want to tell you—
depression wears cologne too.
Anxiety knows how to laugh at jokes.
Panic attacks can come
after touchdowns and straight A’s.
I want to scream:
Check on your boys.
Check on the ones who always say, “I’m good.”
Check on the ones whose humor hits too hard,
too fast,
like they’re trying to dodge their own thoughts.
Because we are drowning
in plain sight.
We are falling
but our hands look like fists,
so no one thinks to catch us.
We are breaking
in ways that look like silence.
And silence
doesn’t make noise
until it’s too late.
When you have spent most of your life,
Suffering from panic attacks, Agoraphobia, and strife,
The last thing you need to happen to you,
Is for your glasses to suddenly break in two.
Only an hour before you meet Cherie Blair,
Help, what a total nightmare.
Then on the next table you spot DAVID BLUNKETT,
As you sit there filling your face with junket.
There is always someone Worse off than you,
Especially at this type of do.
Then she comes over, CHERIE BLAIR, and starts to talk to us.
It feels like a dream, we are chatting to, at the time the Prime Minister’s wife,
Telling her all about my broken glasses and strife,
Telling her how I can hardly see.
She is so nice, as nice can be.
She’s done her homework, She knows what we were all about,
She impressed us, without a doubt,
I just hope I didn’t stare,
The day we met CHERIE BLAIR.
Like an intricate mosaic with just one missing tile.
You know something is wrong and has been for a while.
Surreptitiously working its way into your mind.
Not wanting to admit an illness, saying things will be fine.
The nightmares come first, wake up dripping in sweat.
Maybe see a doctor about it, but doesn't want to just yet.
Panic attacks, immobilise, their talons grip deep into your soul.
Forced to submit to the wretchedness of its filthy black hole.
Like many before, temporary solace is found in the bottle.
Swilling down the demon drink until over they topple.
When the foggy haze of drunkenes clears and the innards burn.
To be immersed in liquor once again they would yearn.
The pills, well they work to keep you sane.
Not to make you better but just to numb the brain.
Emotion is gone, neither feeling happy or sad.
I think I'd rather feel something, even if it's bad.
PTSD, reduced to an acronym all of its own.
R.Y.O.K, is the message to call someone over the phone.
A campaign of advertising, that will do the trick.
But the sufferer still feels no one cares one little bit.
Like the potters field from times of old.
Where broken vessels are tossed, that don't quite fit the mould.
It's a difficult task to bend down and pick up each shard.
Try to put a pot back together, it just seems way too hard.
Poetry Soup, The foundation where I’m planting my roots,
Lassoed by a rope that’s never loose,
Always bringing me back,
I’m here, ready with no fear, high jacking minds causing post traumatic panic attacks,
Ya no match for Quincy Mac! Always attacking while on track,
Was once a street rat, intellectually faster and now your poetic master!
The Rhyme Advancer with the answers,
With deadly sexy stances of grammar,
Aggressive techniques you don’t seek, seen as dangerous, so you lag and stagger,
Dancing with words bringing this banger,
Too advanced, for the ignorant class, who lack comprehensive swagger,
Picking up my spanners, I assemble transcendental concepts making you tremble,
Majority blessed by their synthetic environment, so minds are simple, worthless like a pimple,
Needing popped, shocked into trauma, so you wake to the storm of the west,
Always assuming ignorance is an asset,
A threat to ya well-being, intelligence tells us we should want to know about everything,
So learn to THINK, in sync with observations that interlink with the missing link,
Quick, question your sick social rank, thoughts go blank? No one to thank for wise principals,
I perceive myself as a human individual, home is earth, but cursed with feeble people influenced by evil,
Been told I’m on a different level, NO! Believing this will take hold of my ego,
Instead I write with flow and send out these writings to your brains radio, So turn it up!
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow I pickup bombs of ammo,
As I undergo experiences growing my vocab to blow minds,
The Knowledge Mastermind, of good and the upheaval of fallen thoughts of evils,
Painting life right now, in this domain claiming a divine easel, that equals more than worldly rules,
Prepare ya tools, Reassemble your sanity from all the insanity and ball,
**** in the air, frequencies of fecal matter disrupting what you think, to you its nonexistent and nothing,
Writings encoded deeply, not for the sleepy, hard to put together like a double sided puzzle,
All or nothing, no trouble, with balance keeping an eye on my surroundings, while under my angels wings.
Quincy Mac
Date written: 11.6.2016
You indicated I don’t listen.
I respectfully disagree.
I hear you.
I just don’t like what you have to say.
Pretending to ignore you takes tremendous effort.
Quick to dismiss
that which emanates from a source
other than your own lips –
and it’s not like you’re the only one who likes to hear himself talk.
Trying to sleep
never should be undertaken.
That’s why we fall asleep.
There’s no effort.
Fall’s inevitable.
There’s a season for everything.
But this one’s
short lived
and seemingly doesn’t come as often as it used to
before global warming and other major concerns
evidently.
… thinking about our earlier discussion
makes me wish I lacked lips
and that the cliché about going in
one ear and out the other was more
literal than figurative.
I figure eventually this noise will
QUIET DOWN!
so that trying morphs
to falling
and dreamless sleep supplants
the constant drone of something
terribly wrong.
Panic attacks that
neverend
or seemingly seem so
prior to this pillow talk –
a case for a better
container:
containment is key.
It turns out
that my point of entry
always my biggest nightmare.
Big is such a small word.
I wish it was more attentive
of its status as an anomaly –
just a monosyllabic
monstrosity of awfulness.
B-I-G
A word so tiny
even toddlers
master its annunciation.
BIG!
From that which is so small.
If I said I forgave you
it would be nothing but a lie
but you would not apologize
anyway.
So all this talk is trash.
Be the big one.
Say you’re sorry.
Just refuse for another
Pronouncement
of lackluster
underachievement.
My comfort zone.
I’m sorry.
Yet again.
Invariable measures find me concluded with torment.
Crystallized reflections peripherally surpass imaginations advent.
Crackling blisters intern vivid arbitration, as if to teach spine-chilling lessons.
Collapse goes hostage lungs, held up and recorded in air gasping sessions.
Constant ringing beneath definitions light concealed bag piped eye shadows haunting address.
All occurs timed perfectly for surprise panic attacks; choking on nothingness.
White vaporous visuals infiltrate what sight left remains.
Useless kicking and screaming ended then when normalcy fathomed midst windowed pains.
Feelings numb agony crippled sightless time; acoustic sound walls burrow.
Vines manifest scandalous intent, my surrounded record beckons such growth still; you expect me to feel sorrow.
12/09/16
Pronounced side effect upon my dreams...
courtesy Fluoxetine hydrochloride
Fluoxetine Hcl (C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective Serotonin
Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,
and obsessive-compulsive disorder
the above symptoms
profoundly experienced by yours truly
said prescription medication
seriously impacts sleep (mine).
Debilitating panic attacks
wrought (particularly years gone by)
physiological displeasures chiefly constituting
vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,
whereby Prozac (brand name regarding
aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable, unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, jackknifing... functionality
hijacking life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Essentially yours truly experiences
dilemma analogous to sleep deprivation,
cuz ofttimes upon arising,
I feel utterly tuckered out, exhausted, bushed...
thus zapped body, mind and spirit
ill suited to physical,
mental or spiritual endeavor
subsequently lovely bones (mine)
(pine to join grateful dead)
rather than feebly kickstart
lame effort to write, read or meditate.
Thus respecting Sir Isaac
Newton's first law of motion
a (human) body at rest
inertia keeps said entity at rest.
Interestingly enough as
daylight doth wax and wane
casting dark shadows upon urbane
countenance buzzfeeding hidden reservoir
exerting estimable energy
decreasing arduous strain
therefore purposefulness,
I seek renewable resource to imbue
garden variety generic
doubting thomas and ordain
him (i.e. me) with spontaneous
magnificent grandiloquent enlightenment
ala Orson Welles Citizen Kane
laughable comparison linkedin
with story extraordinaire quite insane
September 4th, 2020 insight one can gain
perchance even coaxing passable poem
from deep within Matthew Scott Harris' brain.
For Some folk Mental Health is a word
For some its a way of life
Depression. Mania, PTSD
OCD, self harm with a knife
People you actually know
Are hiding conditions you can't see
Suffering with this alone
Can be unending misery
Maybe they have lost a friend
In a battle field far away
Looked into his eyes
Seen the light disappear that day
Maybe anxiety is eating them up
Taking hold of their poor mind
Giving them no rewards in life
Leaving the good stuff way behind
A wife is left beaten and bruised
Panic attacks taken a hold
She has to raise the children alone
Live off the state and live in the cold
That friend you don't phone,
could be in need
And if your too busy to call
They might not be freed
People die everyday and the ones that are left behind
Are not so easily fixed as some have more sensitive minds
Some wives walk out the door
Leaving a family to cope
Running so far away
They can't see any hope
Mental Health is only a mystery
If you truly cannot see
As everyone here is only Human
So lets reach out and finally be
A nation that can care
With awareness as its key
Of all the suffering people
To move on for us all to be free
Everyone wants to run with the horses
To run wild to Just Be
To let the wind rush through your hair
Not to suffer Mentally
With macabre-like fear, I fret as Death glides near,
all too near! And in my ears, buried deep,
ticks a ghostly tick-tock—it's all I hear
(so deep, deep in my ears I cannot sleep)!
I'm manic; and with every breath I panic
and hyperventilate, as my lungs scream
for air—as from a nightmare truly horrific,
a dream unlike any phantasmic dream
I've ever dreamt of! With unavailing breath,
I wane—wane morbidly as though on death's bier,
embalmed for entombment in a grave beneath
(as I agonize, because the end feels so near).
In paralyzing fear of these panic attacks,
I'll soon die in their death throes and climax!?