Best Paranoia Poems
Did you ever have the feeling there's a man in your can?
Or a ball down the hall with an eye to spy?
Sometimes I'm sure I have ants on a tour of my house without cure.
And sometimes I know there's a pup in my cup, yelling "Hey, what's up!"
And that white ram in the door jam well, he's on the lam.
That's the kind of paranoia I live with each day.
I admit I'm delusional in a big way!
Some visitors are quite friendly like the girl with a curl under my bed with Earle.
But Bower in the shower, well he sings for hours!
And the lady named Sadie why she is quite shady!
I like Randy. He always has candy.
But the man looking at me in the TV, him I wish I couldn't see.
All the brunettes in the cabinets, they love to dance about.
But that meanie named Bellini, him I could do without!
The cat in my hat I don't like at all.
And I get quite nervous when Saul runs down the hall.
The bears on the stairs taunt me without a sound.
And so do the others who like to hang around.
Like Bert, and Mert, and Kurt, and Gert who live inside my shirt.
I don't care if you don't believe it, find me my straitjacket. I'll never leave it!
*Based on the book, There's a Wocket in My Pocket
for Dr. Seuss Theme and Form contest (Joann Grisetti)
Seventh Place
I feel a little left out.
Looking back I guess I was.
It makes me want to shout.
Maybe it shouldn't but it does.
Why can't I seem to get it right?
Am I missing something?
Maybe I'm holding on to tight.
Or maybe it's really nothing.
Why do they have to stare?
What did they say?
I wish I didn't care.
I'm in complete dismay.
Are they laughing at me?
Maybe they're just having fun.
I wish they could see.
I'm coming completely undone.
I just want to fit in.
I feel so all alone.
Do they see my scared grin?
Maybe I'm really a clone.
Someone please help me.
I can't do it on my own.
I could sure use a whiskey.
Or maybe a headstone.
The story, sad.
The man, sad.
The wife sad,
The children, sad.
The diagnosis, paranoia schizophrenia.
It happened to the man when he was twenty-nine.
He had a sweet family, everything going fine.
But then this threw him out of whack.
He never got his family back.
His young wife had no idea what was wrong.
He followed voices, singing a lonely song.
His eight-year-old daughter was confused.
She kept it to herself, a bit amused.
His new baby, a boy, grew up without a dad,
Growing up without him, made this boy good and mad.
The wife who had married him and thought it was forever
Took him to court, and had his parental rights severed.
He lives alone, on days he is not the President.
On those days he lives in the White House.
He cannot go out on election years, because he is afraid of his fans and the FBI conspirators.
Everyone is out to get him on election years, and sometimes on Tuesdays on other years.
The story sad, the man sad, the wife sad, the children sad.
Paranoia Schizophrenia, a serious business.
continued from Pt 1
With my name underneath!/ I said "Who is keith?"/ She looked over her shoulder,/
The room got colder,/ When she harshly whispered "you!"/ That's when she rose from her
seat, and with her feet started using Kung-Fu./ Like she was a Kangaroo!/ She beat me
black and blue./ Then I heard her scream "That's for taking advantage of my virtue!/
When I finally came too, I was moist with dew./ I felt sick and prayed it was not swine
flu!/ I found a Doctor nearby./ He was also a Rabbi./ I had a lot of ails including pinkeye./
He cured me and took me into the "matrix" like on Sci-Fi./ He then taught me the ways of
the samurai!/ I was now ready, for with one hand I could catch a housefly!/ I adjusted my
necktie, and told the Rabbi goodbye./ I began my next journey under the blue sky./ Off
after that whore I must rectify!/
Note: for Constance La France contest "A Magical Journey" - If I offended anyone with this
piece I apologize It was written only to be morbidly humourous.....
NOTE: Had to alter for contest because of size. This is the actual way it ends. Jimmy
I go outside and what do I see?
a gaggle of people staring and gawking at me.
Is it the way I look or how I am presented?
The way they stare shows signs of confusion and resentment.
Everywhere I go everyone shows the same expression,
Leaving me confused as to why I'm getting this perplexed attention.
Is it the way my face is pale and clothes are torn?
Or how I haven't had a single hair since the day I was born?
I ran to the dock to let off some steam,
Everyone won't stop looking at me,
All I can do is SCREAM.
Trump Derangement Syndrome
and Hoya Paranoia*
Both reside in Washington D.C.
both designed to annoy ya
_______________________________
*The Georgetown University basketball
team's nickname is 'the Hoyas.' The
team is known for its 'annoying,' but
effective, full-court pressure defense.
Other teams became paranoid about
dribbling the ball against them. Hence,
'Hoya Paranoia.'
Paranoia: short circuit to madness
Walking around freely,
Yet our minds are in straitjackets
All these voices & choices
Will offer mental hazards
Control your action
As thought misfire accident
Check your medical aid
Before the consciousness blockade
Check your sense, in reality,
While your brain cells are in casualty
As you stand in crowds
You mind is gathering clouds
They see you while you are in "ICU"
Footsteps.
Drawing ever closer.
Increasingly louder.
I stop.
Wait.
Intake of breath.
Look around.
No one.
Just blackness.
I walk faster.
Heart pounding.
Silence.
Then...
Footsteps louder.
Closer.
Glimpse of long hair.
Ring in nose.
Leather coat.
Paranoid mode.
‘Dropped yer wallet mate?’
' Oh! Thanks.’
Here I am-- again
Grabbing my pen, scribbling my pain
Into bleeding and excruciating words
That might end up killing me.
Damn, I need to let this out!
I need to release all the dramas and doubt.
My pen cries of simile again
Fighting considerately in vain,
Creating make-believe stories,
Drowned in almost vivid memories.
I try to ensconce myself
In awesome poems and proses
While gripping thorny roses
Trying to fix my broken self.
Metaphors that speak euphoria,
Rhymes that sound like paranoia,
Stanzas full of painful battles
Writing frustrations with beautiful titles--
Out of melancholy or perhaps emptiness--
I locked my soul in unreal happiness.
I opted to unspoken dialogues
Where I never have second thoughts on monologues.
This is how I silently wept.
This is where my thoughts are kept.
Ood
Is this sound
From not too far afield
Like mist
Between late dusk and early moonrise
Past quarter of six.
You might not know
It is something unforeseen:
Even as I collect the bad habits
I bear not to keep
Through my sobs, it is that screams.
Strange this is,
Of what I cannot name in the things I hear:
Noise of metals against metals, oft-rhymed sighs
And battle cries, each false note of guns and gongs I overheard: these be not
It.
Is it your footsteps
Of where seek?
Or the reek of its absence
Onto this shore of a bloodbath,
That, set my pulse to skip
Abeat?
Could it be my sweatdrops
Like hoofbeats
Pattering this tin shield
Time of the same?
Or, is it just my heart
Thumps against my ribcage
Which is almost,
But not quite, sharp enough to hurt
Whose beats howl
Nothing but your name?
Author's Note:
*gong - a large bronze disk, of Asian origin, having an upturned rim, that produces a
vibrant, hollow tone when struck, usually with a stick or hammer that has a padded head.
P.S The poem is inspired by the Battle of Maktan in 1521
between the Spanish conqueror: Ferdinand Magellan and the fierce Datu of Maktan:
Lapu Lapu.
I fear you are spreading a dreadful disease
You cough sounds contagious...I shrink when you sneeze!
I have one small issue
Where the HECK is your tissue?
Don't spray your infection on ME (If you please)
In today's world
computer madness
tell me who's watching who?
The lights flicker
As the candle flame
As it grows weaker
And grows more dim
The howls are steadier
The feeling of grim
Drip drop
The sound of blood
I try to hold my breathe
That's too much
The stench
Too much death
Voices wailing
Of pain
And of agony
We're alone
But nothing is sure
As long as they exist
I'll live
Continuing my journey
With blades side by side
They'll tremble before me
Rise blood hunter
Pls. Do Comment after reading.
Pls....
Pretty Pls...
T_T
P....Panic
A...Anxiety
R...Rivalry
A...Aggression
N...Nervousness
O...OCD
I....Illusions
A...Anoid
Written By: Unique Poetry 2015
I have dug this one out of the poetry attic; composed when a teen, hence the dated references. Fellow Soupers of my age-group (60 in a few weeks- Yikes!) might enjoy it:
Friend, watch out! They're talking.
Have you heard what they're talking about?
They're not talking about revolution
Nor of mystical ablution,
Not of meaningful discussions
Nor of drastic repercussions.
Not of drugs and their results
Nor of wars and satanic cults.
Not of full-blooded,Medal-studded,Octo-Olympians
Nor of the tragedy of fading Ethiopians.
Not of whether the weather will hold out.
Will I tell you what they're talking about?
They're not talking about extinction
Nor about energy diminution.
Not about the bludging bureaucracy
Nor of stifling plutocracy.
Not about student-Left activity
Nor of the signs of cultural declivity.
Not about aspects of phallic domination
Nor of real genuine insemination.
Not about who is sure and who in doubt.
Should I tell you who they're talking about?
They're not talking about Nixonfrancocastroamin
Nor of that handydandy, non-returnable
Devastatingly non-biodegradable container
Their fingerfriedlickinchicken lunch was served in.
Not of astronautical penetrations
Nor of the psycho-sexual implications
Of the demise of Chairman Mao.
Not of matters affecting us right here and now!
Nor of suicide, VD, rape, fraud, famine and disease.
Not of all the things like these
Which make this world the wonderful place that it
Most certainly is (and
All divinely-ordained to wit!)
No! They're talking about subversion,
Of unabashed, unwashed perversion!
In short ( and I hear all this is true)
Those bastards are talking about ME & YOU!