Best Psychological Poems

you are, i am

open your doors
close all the windows
sleeping's such a bore
suffocate it with pillows

psh, i'm not hellbent
shut your mouth
it's called character development
WOOPS. broke routine again
and the poem's gone south.

made myself out to be the bad guy
so they wouldn't feel as sad when i die
so many
so many damn times you told me
all those uplifting words regarding my significance
did i ever stop to listen?
now look at all this tension

i am the patient
you're the asylum
this heart rate is hesitant
unless you revive them

i'm the addiction and
you are the needle 
i'm the mutilation 
you're the scars that will heal

i am the stash 
and you're the supplier
i am the match and
you are the fire

you are the truth
and i am the dare
you are the daydream
i'm the nightmare

i am the cigarette
you are the lighter
i am the pirouette
you're the choreographer 

we all are so sad
we've both lost our thrill
that's just too bad but
we both know the drill
 

made myself out to be the bad guy

so i wouldn't feel as sad when i die

Copyright © Agony Aiane | Year Posted 2016

Sarah's Story - Mental Illness

Sarah’s Story - Mental Illness

Sarah, the “Crazy Lady,” was a familiar sight,
roaming the streets any time of day or night.
Her foul body odor announced her presence,
as she paraded around in her filthy, smelly garments. 
Walking barefoot regardless of the weather,
in her state of mind, she couldn’t do better. 
Children teased and made fun of Sarah,
reciting ridiculing ditties, adding to the drama.
Behind her a lively entourage would follow, 
taunting and calling her names creating a sideshow.
They howled with childish laughter,  
as Sarah hurled angry profanities after.
An avid collector of all kinds of trash,
she transformed her abode into a garbage stash.
Sarah’s odd behavior made her fair game,
to unkind people who had no mercy or shame.
While many folks turned a blind eye, 
young boys threw rocks and other missile,
at the roof and windows of the shack she occupied.
Behind bushes, they would scamper away to hide,
as Sarah furiously dashed outside, 
brandishing a machete, cudgel, or broom, 
screaming out curses, damnation, and doom.  
Like a cancer, her mental illness had devoured her brain,
and before long, she was officially "certified insane."
Most agreed it was for her own benefit,
and for the good of society to be rid of this "misfit." 
But even though she was locked away in an institution,
no psychiatric treatment could cure her mental condition.
When Sarah finally died, she was unloved and alone; 
her passing was hardly noticed, and she was mourned by none.




Note: This piece was inspired by a true account. While we have made great strides in the study of mental illness and understanding it, unfortunately negative attitudes and beliefs toward people who have mental health conditions are still common. Thus, as a society, we still have a long way to go to improve our attitudes and to show more caring and compassion for those who suffer from various types of mental illness. 

Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2015

One Dismal Night

Listen to poem:

One dismal night in Autumn’s chill  
With thunder, deafening and shrill --
I, in my chamber, dark and damp
Lay restlessly near flick’ring lamp  
Heard scratching just behind the curtain
‘twas but a tree branch, I was certain 

Still half-asleep in fitful slumber
‘midst crashing sounds of shaking thunder
With blanket pulled to hide my head 
All nestled down into my bed --
Yet even still, could not be drowned,
That horrid, scratching-scratching sound

Tossing -- tossing to and fro 
My heavy pillow I did throw
As if to stop that scratching sound 
That made my head begin to pound!
But yet the noise continued still --
Such scratching, scratching, on the sill  

Reluctantly I left my bed
And headed toward the thing of dread --
Flung back the curtains with disdain  
Threw open window to the rain --
Thus welcoming a feline beast 
If only so the scratching ceased!

Conceding shelter for the night 
I lay back down and cut the light 
Relinquished slowly to my dreams --
Awakened suddenly to screams! 
They were my own, these anguished cries!
That feline clawing at my eyes!

Scratching, scratching at my head --
Tearing me, my flesh to shred --
My screaming didn’t scare it off 
It looked at me as if to scoff 
My bed became my grave, it seemed --
‘till I awakened from my dream …
 
Its eyes -- they bore into my soul 
I grabbed it up with just one goal --
The force at which I threw that beast 
Against the wall -- the scratching ceased
Then threw its body out the door
To haunt me, haunt me nevermore! 

Thus bringing peace to follow fast --
Yet peace like this will never last 
For every night, I toss and turn
My head, it spins - my ears, they burn
For every night, upon the sill --
I hear the scratching-scratching still 

Copyright © Becca Teagan | Year Posted 2017

The Pain Game

Why do people, want to cause
Other people pain
Where is the Love 
That will break the chain

Someone says something
Then it's tit-for-tat
I've played this before
We all know the score
Now who's up at bat

I think it's time, for us to play
The self healing game
Before there's no one, left
Around to blame

One that's more thoughtful
And much less insane
Let's reach for the Sun
And help everyone
Come out of the rain

All we have, is this fleeting chance
To get this right
No time for jealousies 
No time to fight

Don't say, that you're sorry
Don't seek to forgive
Just start here today
And throw it away
And learn how to live
 

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014

In the bed they make

And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!

When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger

Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact

They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood

Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”

Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings

Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited

They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads

Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies

…

And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?

When will the flinty sheep 
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began

Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands

©Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

The Hanging

The jury was unanimous
Twelve cried out justice
Guilty
It was just before the changing hour
The hanging planned for quarter past midnight or so
The moon was full, the shining light exposing deaths dance
The grim reaper was ready, one more for his collection

I was ready for this moment
Ready to face my freedom and my death
Long ago, a mirror shattered into twelve pieces
Twelve faces who said I have to go
Twelve past the midnight hour

Sacred ghosts haunting twilight hours
Whiskey filling the soul soon to be departed
The hangman at the ready with a somber face
For his duties he did not so much embrace
This evening he knew the hanging would take all effort
Of spirit and determination
To send this one of to his eternal damnation

He was shivering and I sensed in fear
As I stared at him solemnly in the mirror
We both eye to eye knew this day would come
The hangman and me, conscious of the sum

So the note was neatly written
The whiskey bottle all alone, empty on the floor
I stood bravely or maybe cowardly
Upon the wooden chair

The rope I wrapped around I my neck
As the hangman in the mirror was in despair
I patted him on the back and said no worries my friend
This, you see is the end of it all
All that we ever both wished or dreamed

A week or two later
They found the hangman
A rope around his neck
Staring blanking in the mirror

A note on the bedside table
Told this story as you hear
A man with a broken heart
Hanged because of his own mutilated reflection

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

A Love Story

The girl is an ultra-modern scholar, 
Belongs with an upper-middle class family. 
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly. 
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University. 
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare, 
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket. 
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....

The girl is very good.

The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...

The boy is very good.


They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The  girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his. 
 
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.

Time flows.
Love goes to another address... 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Xanthophobia

Zanthoxylum shrubs with clustered yellow flowers,
Yolks of eggs and yellow jackets make her want to scream.
Xanthophobia ensnares her. It is sickening
Wakening to an aureate dawn’s bright rays.
Vehemently she shakes!
Ubiquitous are sunny days; she much prefers the clouds.
They keep her safe from light and her anxiety at bay.
Secluded in her rose pink room, she stays inside,
Rarely venturing outside except at eventide.
Quick is she to greet fast-falling snow.
Pedestrians abandon streets. Then she likes to go
Out to see the colored world buried in tranquility,

Nauseated she becomes just seeing people eat
Macaroni’s yellowish cheese, all things buttery,
Lemon cakes, bananas, mustard. It is a feat
Keeping herself calm. Sometimes she panics.
Jaundiced skin can do her in.
In many cases, she turns to Xanex. 
Hideous to her is this disease,
Growing, never slowing. Even therapy
Fails to help. Whatever can she do?
Emotionally frazzled, living with unease when
Dandelions, daisies or ducks come into view.
Corn, baby chicks, and girls that she has seen
Bleached a brilliant bombshell blonde so bold!
All of it - florescent dreams - are nightmares laced in gold.


For the First Ever ZYX Contest sponsored by John Lawless

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

Psycho Evaluation

                          Psycho Evaluation



    Physically unable to deal with all this stress
        a clinical Psychiatrist said that I am depressed
            No shat Sherlock you are such a genius
                10 years of college for this uneducated guess
                    Yah you're just an Idiot with an ego to caress
                    
                    Pockets full of pens and eyeglasses to impress
                    Yes we all notice the impeccable way you dress
                    Armani styled striped suit all ironed and pressed
                    It looks quite expensive only the best for the best
                    No I don't want to do your magic ink blotter test

                    You act as if by the Almighty you are blessed
                Just like the Preacher trying to get us to confess
            So how do I know this won't end up in my arrest
        I guess I'll just have to remove you in the end more or less
    Now who is the one that's stressed???...



                          
                              revised 04/27/16

Copyright © Brian Davey | Year Posted 2016

Alchemy

How do you change a lie into the truth?
Alchemy, dear children ...
this is how it's done, using unverifiable proof
First, you take a sick, dirty lie,
and doctor it up as truth
Whitewash and scrub it clean,
then jet power it with unsubstantiated verbal steam
That should make the lie thoroughly sanitized
Then play a continuous sound byte loop,
uncorroborated and fact-free
Present the fake news with a five-star salute,
then say secrecy is the true path to liberty
This rings eerily like New Age alchemy,
bell-tolling Faustian chemistry
If that ain't a manufactured alternate reality,
then somebody is lying to us obviously
How do you do this, change a lie into the truth?
Alchemy, dear children ...
this is how it's done, using fabricated proof
Next, you take a package,
and deliver it to the people,
with a Trojan horse message inside
But the people don't know it's harmful,
because they labeled it with a lie
See, that's the beauty of deception,
they don't call a lie a lie
Instead they choose another word,
as they place the pirate patch over their eye
Misleading, false claims
Plausible deniability
mis-remembering
Choose whichever words you will,
a lie is a lie is a lie still
Changing a word won't make a falsehood real
Taste the propaganda spoiled sauerkraut;
as alternative facts are trotted out,
and disinformation is bandied about
Know that immoral alchemy is being performed
by high wizards of the dark arts
Frankenstein experiments in need of more body parts
Don't be bewitched by lying craft,
don't get (con)fused by this manipulative graft
into a cancerous body politic
Changing a lie into the truth
is the ultimate alchemist trick

A Will of Fire

When your world darkens
When your will gets shattered
When your fire becomes weak
when your strings get cut
When your heart gets broken
When your about to give in

Think of why you have come this far
Think of why your fire is still burning 
Let it fuel you, let it ignite your soul
No matter what the world throws at you
No matter how bad you hurt, and want to give up
You must never give in and submit

Get up and take back control
Push yourself to the limits, never falter, never surrender
Pick up the pieces, get new strings, ignite yourself 
Make the darkness fear your will of fire, for you pain is temporary
The darkness will burn, it will weaken
Your will of fire will guide you and others out of the dark and into a new dawn

Copyright © Unknown Unknown | Year Posted 2016

You'll Know Of Love

If you can make it, through the day,
Not concerned, with what others say,
If you can take the time, to play,
Yet get your work done, come what may,
If you win, having never fought,
And mend the bridges, time has tore,
Or be content, with what you’ve got,
And very rarely, ask for more;

If you can make, a house a home,
And properly raise, children too,
If you can stay, and never roam,
And do it, cause it’s what you do,
If you can speak bad, of no one,
Cause gossip's, not worth repeating,
Or stick, to a task till it’s done,
And never think, of retreating;

If you can keep, your life savings,
And not risk it, on a gamble,
And avoid, expensive cravings,
And allow your friends, to ramble,
If you can force yourself, to cope,
And do what it takes, to survive,
And live, on little more than hope,
And the will, which keeps you alive;

If you can hold, your head up high,
Or stoop, to help the poor and such,
If you seek truth, and not a lie,
If you can heal, with but a touch,
If you can, be mother and wife,
And still find time, for God above,
Yours is the Earth, and a good life,
And what is more; you'll know of love!

Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015