On her front and back pair of wings are found many a natural tattoo
like inkblots, they form perfect mirror images, that you love to view
Her lifting of wings in a figure-eight pattern, our spirits it does renew
Trying to please the onlookers, she forgets the pains she goes through
Categories:
inkblots, 4th grade, butterfly,
Form: Couplet
My Yin and my Yang are at odds with one another
I place the blame for my Oedipus Complex squarely on the shoulders of my mother
I cannot be held responsible for the mistakes I make each day
The flaws in my character are baked into my DNA.
Maslow's Hierarchy establishes priorities from which I cannot change
My interpretation of Rorschach's inkblots suggest I am deranged
I respond to certain stimuli much the same as Pavlov's dog
I hear voices from inside my head but cannot follow the dialogue.
Schrodinger's cat may be dead or alive, the same is true for my libido
Sigmund Frued would say that is because my Id is subservient to my Super-Ego
I am sorry but our time is up, according to the clock upon the wall
You integrated some of my personalities, but you did not get them all.
Categories:
inkblots, psychological,
Form: Rhyme
In the shadow of sunlight,
shapes shift and dance around.
In ever changing patterns,
they move across the ground.
Some shadows tell a story
like inkblots on the mind,
but sunlight is the master
and shadow follows behind.
I don't always feel the sunshine;
Sometimes it throws some shade
onto my life's direction
and a detour must be made.
When the sunlight turns to shadow
and the path becomes unclear,
I only have to wait a while
for the sun to reappear.
So, shadow depends on sunlight
to brightly lead the way,
but they're forever bound together
in a dark and light display.
July 30, 2024
Categories:
inkblots, relationship, sunshine,
Form: Rhyme
He’s a man of few words when he wants to be
And his silence can rival the Sphinx,
But be spins a good yarn during therapy
With his analyst pouring the drinks.
His obsession with fishing’s a mania,
Always dying to dangle the bait.
His aversion to marriage, a phobia,
His fiancée will just have to wait.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke
In some Freudian home on the range.
Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch,
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
He’s obsessive compulsive habitually
In matters to which he is drawn,
And he’s down at the topless bar ritually,
Unless there’s a football game on.
He’s conflicted about schizophrenia,
Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread.
He exhibits selective amnesia,
And he’s passive aggressive in bed.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull,
And those inkblots are all kind of strange.
He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt.
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
Regardless his problems,
He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.
Categories:
inkblots, allegory, irony, psychological,
Form: Lyric
Inkblots of distress wane as psychedelic stars burst into fireworks
1/19/2019
Bring Color Back Into My World
Contest of Kim Rodrigues
Categories:
inkblots, color,
Form: Monoku
A pen to scribble, upon thou texture of nature’s art,
Thrashing about, men’s minds of nomenclature prose,
His mind’s turn to rotate with sequential prowess,
Lines of truth within thou heart of endowments,
To depart from former figures, all alleged from necromancy
Was a mirthful hearthstone within a hapless man.
“Writing is the gateway to inkblots of towering intellect, misery and mystery, along with the denial of all humanity that there is such a thing as ascertain expression. However, realize that writing created language, thus the catalyst for such denial in the first place.”
Categories:
inkblots, 12th grade, analogy, blessing,
Form: I do not know?
Too many years since we said hello...
Let's face it, you've been a novel I can't quite put down...
I've tried, losing the pages...
Forgetting the binds...
Hell even tried to drown...
But many pages left with words unspoken...
Inkblots of tears turned into, "What do you see?"...
It hurt to see the pages burn...
Flames blowing hot and cold...
Found the beauty in the burning of my talented words...
Tightening of lungs as smoke filled my air...
The blackness of the ash dissolving inside my charred heart.
Categories:
inkblots, dark,
Form: Narrative
Sshh…
I can see it
Creeping behind the wounded paper
Fabricated in the surface of the wall
The wall. Yes the wall.
Countless stains embedded
Thousand images magnified during midnights
Raindrop stains transformed into wars
Inkblots turned into murder scenes
A dot of blood resurrected into a horrible monster
And the monster lives in the wall.
Now it’s peeking
Its mocking eyes met mine
Staring at me as if I have murdered millions
I suddenly felt numb
Yet I desired to crush it till it turns to a single dust.
I stepped closer
My body trembled
It didn’t move neither did it show an act of resistance
But instead, its red eyes glowed
And opened wider and bigger.
I closed my eyes hoping it would vanish.
I reached for a hanging portion of the torn wallpaper,
I tore it forcefully—
Mirror!
(an entrant in to the Luzon-Wide Press Conference back when I was in college, adjudged 6th Place)
Categories:
inkblots, confusion, imagination,
Form: Narrative
Dwell not upon “when” with unpleasant thoughts.
For joy depends on one’s state of mind.
Delight yourself; live unbound by past blots.
Worry not about old fears and inkblots.
Make choices; decide which daydreams can stay.
Dwell not upon “when” with unpleasant thoughts.
Halt all musings rooted in sad onslaughts.
And then, give your dreams to God’s love, trusting.
Delight yourself; live unbound by past blots.
Cease mental thrashings; unwind hurtful knots.
Laugh and sings songs; let your joyful heart swell.
Dwell not upon “when” with unpleasant thoughts.
Think on happy days, songs, play, and teapots.
With wisdom seek sweet memories…feeling.
Delight yourself; live unbound by past blots.
Picture your moments as perfect snapshots.
Select your reflections; reduce past pain.
Dwell not upon “when” with unpleasant thoughts.
Delight yourself; live unbound by past blots.
© Dane Smith-Johnsen
July 1, 2010
Categories:
inkblots, inspirational
Form: Villanelle
Doc is very worried
He says I’m half insane
I have the feelings buried
And have a taste for pain
He says he has a method
To look and see what I see
So I stare into the black
And see the face of me
But wait I see my mother
She’s telling me to leave
Saying my ride is outside waiting
To take what she doesn’t need
Doc do we have to do this
“Son I have to see”
The dark comes over again
In through my eyes, dark deeds
On the stretcher, grandpa
And his shiny golden ring
The angels see his cancer
Why don’t they revive and sing
Doc stop please
It hurts to see
“Look and feel your pain”
“These are your memories”
I’m asleep in my crib
I hear a clack of keys
My father is gone
Why did he have to leave
The dark is manifest now
It talks death to me
I feel so drowsy
I fall to sleep
I awake in my bed
Covered in blood
I clean with a shower
And wipe the suds
Worried I drive to see the doc
I hear the sirens all around
A man said what had happened
9 dead were found
*for "The Dark Poet" contest*
Categories:
inkblots, death, depressiondark, dark,
Form: I do not know?
Somebody got the best of me
I'm only half a man
Simple mind on overdrive
but i do the best I can
Something turned me inside out
I don't know if I'll ever love
choking on soo many complexes
don't think you'll ever figure me out
Somewhere inside this intention
is a remedy for this confusion
Inside of this sensation for fools
is the way to my absolution
How can I close the door on these tears
from the nights of such conclusions?
Something hiding in me
I can see with my eyes closed
a piece of soul I don't know
hiding away forever
more of me then I'll ever know
but I don't know the reason
water it to let it grow
but sanity chokes the seasons
Smothering the lies in their alibis
Something's got a hold of me now
looking through the absolute
Somethings got a hold of me now
Categories:
inkblots, confusion, imagination, visionary, me,
Form: Free verse
I am the pen of life
Held between the fingers
Of a much greater power
I flow my footprints onto pages
Even glass, wood or the roughest surface
Engraving a non cryptic legacy
Bleeding in cursive inkblots
Embedding confusion into the psyche
Of the psychological
And stain with smudges the white card backdrops
Where all but the unknown remain
To taint and blemish
The nature of the purest liquid
Rolling, tumbling, leaking
Crying mascara from start to finish
To leave some memory
Of any sort of acceptance
While in a putrid state of lucidness
Gliding, striving, soul seeking
For purpose and repentance
My greatest fear
Is that it will start to rain
Before the ink has dried
Categories:
inkblots, angst, art, life, on
Form: Free verse