Best Psychotropic Poems
Poem to Myself
You ask to be birthed,
when you know I have passed
the age of passion to sing anything
sweeter than a harmonious hymn.
My taste for life is hollow blue
and all I know is hawks flying and lilting leaves falling.
There is no honey in the suckle.
If I were awake, I would sing of
blackness and morning star,
being beautiful, heritage of queens,
mama songs and Tennessee,
knowing full well that there’s
no place, no ears, no eyes.
I am the scorned sister.
I write words and dream.
I look at a group of trees in summer and see
that wonderful, magical country,
to which I never go.
Is that who I am?
The newspaper can't tell my future and
for a twenty-dollar phone call to a psychic
will there be hope, a while.
Yes, my precious self,
you ask to be birthed
yet you hide your real face
behind the white peaks of a
daily psychotropic cocktail,
parasites of the mind that suck the senses.
Oh, but if you break free,
if you get to feel,
just once
limitless wonder
WOW!
'old poems, FREE VERSE (003)
Poet Destroyer A, Sponsor
melting colors cry
psychotropic dripping tears
blush on heavens cheeks
11/18/15
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
What can a bewildered brotha’ say,
it happens every unnatural day
Sunshine is labeled as shade,
crystal clear is called opaque fade
Did I make a left turn
into the wrong dimension?
Now I’m seeing curvaceous things
that Nana never mentioned
Me rearview mirror eyes are
side-swipe swivel swerve widening
Was there a hot-iron cool downgrade,
firebrand placed
on my Ocho Rios dreadlock upbraids?
Puff kings are turning into drag queens ...
strange flesh doings,
I-and-I now be-be first-hand witnessing
Boys are turning into girls,
and those goatee girlz are turning into scrotum women
Lord knows,
I feel like I’m living in
Sodom and Gomorrah again
Girls are turning into boys,
and those bosom boyz are turning into vulva men
Now, I’m not for sight sure,
just what glassy gaze starry eyes blurry,
rest beyond the dress curtain
Surprises a-plenty are in store,
when it’s uncertain
what’s behind the gender door
Don’t wanna make the wrong turn,
and roll into the surreal fifth dimension
Twilight Zone neon strip is on burn,
whatcha’ see
might require psychiatric intervention
Girls are turning into boys,
and those boyz are turning into Venus men
Lord knows,
I feel like I’m Sin City living in
ancient Egypt Greece again
Boys are turning into girls,
and those girlz are turning into Mars women
Puff kings are turning into drag queens ...
strange flesh doings
It’s an open-closet psychotropic skin scene
Another brother daisy duke
exhale exigent cross-dress pollination
Pubic bramble bush adolescent tumble,
take a different genitalia turn from
a same sister butch duchess
Boys are turning into girls,
and those girlz
are turning into testosterone women
Lord knows,
I feel like I’m Zion living in
Babylon Rome again
Girls are turning into boys,
and those boyz
are turning into estrogen ova men
Momma drag queens
are the former Daddy puff kings
Nothing on the surface is
quite biological what it seems
Id feelings of a sorrowful kind,
have me heart sprout creeping ivy
of eunuch tear yearning
for a Garden of Eden spiritual awakening
And impotent thoughts of mine
are starting to grow
down below, in-between
Is there a doctor in the house?
A cryptic message from the uniting nations,
looking for yet another credentialed ecotherapist
to surgically remove all our economic and political issues.
Those remaining after overdosing on pharmaceuticals
as media marketed
through normal incorporated competitions
for egocentric profit
channels and parties and outlets
fed by oil-fired over-heating ballistic powers.
Unfortunately, this local ecotherapeutic facilitator and mentor guild
is out of rabid pathologists.
They are all currently mad with medicines
of and for climate illnesses,
building sand bag towers
across drowning coastal cities
the oceans are reclaiming as their own,
in their perennial rage against the continents
of usurpation.
Predators, with power-over monocultural intent,
this tidal tug of war between productive lands and all-consuming seas.
But doctors are best for reacting
to already raging and suffered madness,
badness,
while our ecotherapeutic nurses
are nurturing specialists,
responsible for co-mentoring regenerative public health,
supporting cooperative natural healing laws and organic orders,
composting richer climates within dysfunctional families
as post-graduate clinical trials
before they take on facilitating public-sector governing,
multicultural garden uncovering,
helpful-healthy community beloving
our uniting nations' polypathically extending families.
For proactively regenerating healthy societies
this ecotherapeutic guild recommends
our co-empathic cooperative trust mentors,
nurturing Good Holistic Sciences and Arts of healing medicines.
Where surgeons and psychotropic dispensing political doctors
react against predative paranoid economic nightmares,
our health-nurturing nurses bring deep-resonantly fired experience
returning pathological ecopolitical dark night scares
into rememories of multicultural Paradise Dreams
singing and dancing through EarthTribe childhoods.
Why seek yet another burnt-out surgical WinLose pathologist
when we have so many healthy WinWin eco-nutritional mentors?
Trees creating good from bad atmospheres
and pollinators regenerating depleted ecopolitical soils
and barren, former ecologically healthy, souls.
A beautiful word, like sex
on stick and bears no guilt,
is the sure epitome of
my blood and not of my belly
Not to omit the brevity
of its syllable, oft sounding on
my breath, I till it not only
when spring comes, but in winter too
Those who care and speak
what they think of
my epitome makes me breathe
life’s expectation easier
I supervise that it sways elegantly,
not to impress my ego, nor to roughen lives,
but to comfort palms with skin, oh like mine,
keeled by handshakes of psychotropic war
High on We
High on kisses on my neck
and the psychotropic affect of the breeze
High on the rhythm of breathing
Catching rays of knowledge
Sun shining....my mind is
High on words alone
Filling paper with messages
that set the tone for my next poem
Untitled pieces feeling neglected
until spoken on a microphone
High on taking care of mine
High on the amount of time it might take
to realize the truth from the lies
High on the importance of light and
finding out exactly where it leads
I've discovered that it's not an easy road
especially for the meek
High on my kids kids and if we will ever meet
High on the space that goes beyond me
transcending skies and traveling to places that bind me
to a higher mind state
High on my mood when I meditate
High on the mundane state created because of sin
I've let go of all the ********
from back in the day and negative remember whens
I've learned lessons about who I really am
and I'm building character within
I get so high
I get so high
I get so high
I wake up to the radio, the cops have this suspect on the run
who dives out of my speaker and is brandishing a gun.
He jumps off of my balcony but before he hits the ground
becomes the victim of a drive by that is going down.
I open up a coffee can, I'm needing some caffeine
when out jumps illegal aliens who run fleeing from the scene.
They dive into a mailbox where agents for the CDC
are investigating some anthrax conspiracy.
Welcome to America the all day non-stop culture show
I've been up an hour now, only 23 to go.
The suicidal mullah and the martyr fission guard
are fencing with the fuel rods of the Babylon Jihad.
All the foam fanged infidels with their bottle rocket brains
start launching their scenarios for a nuclear exchange.
Out on the worried boulevard nervous heads explode
from all the terror elevated pressure overloads.
It starts a circus stampede of the psychotropic hoard
who rush down to the pharmacy for the Prozac smorgasbord.
Welcome to America the all day non-stop culture show
I've been up an hour now, only 23 to go.
Splinters and Beams
Stream of consciousness gleams under stark cover
Agents of psychotropic delusion blur and distort
White dust perforating a septum’s divide
Snuffed cuffed to addiction and stuffed
‘You are your downfall as you trip on your ride’
Little pinpricks endorsing a festering skin
Blisters of sinister conscience molested
‘Told you so that heroin sucks into abuse’
Meth crystals inhaled from a broken light bulb
Reignited beaming gleaming from splinters
‘Serves you right you are the scum of the earth’
Magic fungus mushrooming the doomed mind
From a domed cap on a stalk deluding insight
‘You deserve no better procured your decline’
Mary Jane weeding abysmal sativa salivating
with pleasure bleeding a buzz stoned for the thrill
‘All that hippie stuff why don’t you get real’
Flawed dust - broken needle - splintered neon -
Mouldy ingestion – disjointed joint - slushed drink
I never chased the dragon but fell of the wagon
Quite often imbibed left my shame bashed trashed
Befuddled and resolved against judgement when I now
Tend to sweep my side of the street sober and clean
Your splinter is your chip your own fragmentation
My beam is my joist my scaffold and my crossbar to level
15th April 2018
what will you say?
now that I have abandoned an ingredient
in my psychotropic cocktail
speak calmly and tell me
of sunny skies
wind-blown shadows
tell me, I can reach way down inside
way down in the center of me
a throw this thing asunder
grasp it
hard
collect all the shame
disdain
embarrassment
and how I hate you girl stuff
wrap my fist around it tightly
pull it from the very core
pulling, pulling, ever so hard to detach
all the pain, sticky stinking
wrapped around my wrist like phlegm
and hurl it as far and fast as I can
with all my might
into the oblivion of forgetfulness
Father, Give me Strength!
Strength to forgive myself.
5/23/2021
'A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE NO 1200' Poetry Contest
Fictitious families
Dysfunctional means
Compromised children
Capricious teens
Serrated self-loathing
Culling scarred skin
Dapper diagnoses
Dulling depression’s din
Psychotropic pulses
Sedentary screams
Subjugated subjects
Catharsis of dreams
Dusk dawning
In convenience’s vanity
Vociferous voices
Pilfering sedated sanity
Slurred smiles
Lithium lies
Hanging from vestiges
Suicide survives
On the corner of Short con and Long play
sits the neighborhood ponies man
in his pickup van,
waiting to take parlay list deliveries
Feeling leisurely ... not wanting to bounce
on a Cadillac roll,
Trickbaby is out on a stroll
He's looking for a grifter tip
on a hot streak filly,
who runs fast spurred by a mean buggy whip
He takes his numbered ticket buy,
puts it in his lucky left side pocket,
as he holds a rolled, sacred racing form scroll
in his superstitious, money-itching right hand
Trickbaby continues on his daily walk
heading to the hoop chain ballers park
Once there, he takes a spectator bench asphalt view,
and watch some opening moves
of the ghetto grandmaster’s playing
on their custom made chessboards
Long retired from the rat-race corporate game,
Trickbaby got laid back, lounging angles
and always charismatic, well-rehearsed dangles
He observes the walking nylon nets
concrete flash bait some guppy fishes,
and he rises to go where he knows
some quick currency streams are gon flow
Trickbaby captain finger signs the seedy hotel scout door man,
who in turn gives him the proper respect nod of his soldier head
Trickbaby is dressed in his natty, blue-grey pork pie hat,
neon black, sharkskin zoot suit
And patent leather penguin spats —
proper old-school playa shoes
He greets the tall, exotic Illustrated woman at the door,
who extends her psychotropic inked hand
and pierced diamond-studded tongue
Receiving the news of the working crews,
Trickbaby goes up to his penthouse room to rest
for another night rendezvous,
at the corner of Long con and Short play
King Gotham bat gon meet some joker night crawlers;
crack open some new grifter plans,
and watch those wannabe trickbabies get the dreamy eyes ...
Seeing visions of tropical beach sands
Trickbaby true knows that a fake trickbaby
only gon start to ghetto grow up one day,
when you take their milk bottle money away
In truth hypocrisy lies
Fermented in the divine
A psychotropic shed of moral skin
Manifest entropy our destiny sink or swim
Unto others we do lest it be done to us
Lost in translation is decency and trust
As vanity informs our social dialect
When studying a mirror is there anything but regret
Late spring
and the opening gasps
of summer’s blazing promise
bring whirling dark clouds,
horizontal rain,
fierce weather,
warning horns,
my blackness,
horizontality,
downright mean melancholy,
and warning signs
worthy of attention.
I much prefer lazy storms
that I can listen to
at night in bed
after I’ve closed my book
(a defense mechanism
so that the day doesn’t end
and I’ll not have to live today
again tomorrow).
It’s neutral in that dark dark,
my ears fine-tuning my mood,
thunder a tympanic counterpoint
to the forgetting I know is coming
with the assistance of
my nightly psychotropic,
without which I don’t sleep,
without which I
descend into despair.
My familiar,
outside of me,
sits patiently
in the chair across the room,
legs crossed casually,
cigarette dangling from
the first two fingers of his left hand,
waiting for dawn,
knowing that the overcast
will return tomorrow,
and I’m his again.
During these shadowy times
my dreams are the old ones
of failure and inadequacy
of such intensity
that I force myself awake
to make them stop,
my pounding heart
and short shallow breaths
lingering.
Oddly though,
bright days don’t always bring
an equivalent measure
of pleasant dreams,
say, pastures of flowers,
faces I love,
chocolate,
tints of sweet colors.
Instead there is nothing,
and I wake knowing only that
while I slept
no psychic comedy played for me,
no balance or compensation offered
for the drama of gray day theater.
I got these old habits that I’m trying to kill
Like kick off the ills
Of these psychotropic pills
Cause I’m someone else
They turned me into someone else
What you say, it’ll all come back
Whether love or it’s hate
both strange like an asylum
toxic waste
Yea that negatives a toxic waste
people want to get rich
Then it happens too fast
See a lack in your *****,
While you whipping that jag
What you mean?
What you mean?
Got corona home safe
Tryna search out the truth
But it’s still a cold case
Can we all chill out with the wars
Instead of guns in their faces
Pencils and erasers
they’re gone today
There won't be no bombs away
we’re all locked on the screen, I phone
Bet if I tried to take it
it’ll get your heart racing
locked in chains
We’re just modern slaves
It don’t matter what they say
You aint done kid
They aint got half your heart
So I know you gone win
Said,
It don’t matter what they say
You aint done kid
They aint got half your heart
So I know you gone win