Long Diagnosing Poems
Long Diagnosing Poems. Below are the most popular long Diagnosing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Diagnosing poems by poem length and keyword.
I have met your kind before—
not monsters, not villains,
but quiet architects of doubt
who build fog in other people’s minds.
You do not shout.
You rearrange reality
one sentence at a time
until memory feels like a crime.
“You’re too sensitive.”
“That never happened.”
“I was joking.”
The holy trinity of erasure.
But here is what I teach
in rooms with soft lamps
and chairs angled toward healing:
Perception is not a courtroom
where the loudest argument wins.
It is a nervous system
trying to stay safe.
And when someone keeps
rewriting your inner weather,
your body learns to live in storms
that never touched the sky.
So we begin with a boundary —
not a wall of anger,
but a door with a lock
you are allowed to use.
“I remember it differently.”
“That comment doesn’t feel okay to me.”
“I won’t continue this conversation
if my feelings are being dismissed.”
Notice:
No screaming.
No diagnosing them back.
Just a line drawn in calm ink.
Gaslighting feeds on debate.
Boundaries feed on decision.
You do not have to prove
your pain on a witness stand.
You only have to decide
what behavior gets access to you.
This is not cruelty.
This is psychological hygiene.
A mind cannot heal
where it is constantly told
it is broken for bleeding.
So let them call you distant.
Let them say you’ve changed.
Growth often looks like betrayal
to those who benefited from your silence.
You are not “too much.”
You are not “imagining things.”
You are not required
to set yourself on fire
to keep someone else warm in their denial.
In the end,
a boundary is not about them.
It is the moment
you choose to believe
your own mind
again.
Do you think we’re the sort of girls to sit around on a Sunday night?
EAH (loud buzzer sound) you’d be wrong!!
What’s the opposite of seasonal depression - seasonal euphoria?
I’m self-diagnosing here, but I think I’ve got it.
I have all the symptoms:
Excessive happiness: a level of joy statistically improbable.
Compulsive smiling: grinning under the most mundane circumstances.
Irrational optimism: the feeling everything will turn out all right.
Compulsive socializing: relentlessly engaging in parties and outings.
Impulsive behavior: capricious decisions that lead to.. stuff.
Difficulty focusing: trouble concentrating on ‘serious subjects.’
Increased appetites: A craving for.. everything fun.
I have to call it. The symptoms are limpid, my diagnosis is:
Summer, seasonal euphoria, and it feels pretty good.
.
.
Songs for this:
Rooftop by Kelly Jones
The Game of Love by Katrina & the Waves
DeadBeat Club by The B-52s
I've met doctors who have played the know it all role,
Who thought they knew all there was to know,
To listen to their hearts seemed a waste of their time,
Diagnosing a persons heart without even really hearing their cries,
This behavior disturbed me to no end,
Not wanting to share because of this attitude, can you really blame them,
They've already been labeled so why even try,
To take the time to look into their eyes,
To get to know them and be their friend,
Was not a part of their job description,
I would NEVER want that prestigious degree,
Thanks,,but NO THANKS, I'll wash dishes gratefully,
All the money in the world can't buy,
The love that I saw in their eyes,
When I look back to when I wanted to go back to college,
To get paid for my passion, I don't think I would want it!
She wants words?
Romantic words to squeeze out a smile from her heart,
And diagnose the functioning of her left ventricle?
How about we nail her to her own cross?
Ropes secured,tight and stronger than her teeth;
We'll tie round her limbs like a frog made ready for an experiment;
We will need a blindfold to send her into a dark moment,
Where,her mind can skip a bit to worlds unknown and afar;
A burning bush without smoke she will see-
A replay of the Exodus Moses' scene;
But then,the drumming within those flames and the chanting and rejoicing;
And the cry of cows and goats under slaughter,
More like that of her mother while Olliver's head got stuck in between her legs;
And finally,the smell of blood! Fresh,human blood dripping from her head,
Like a drill had been made into her skull like a water pump;
The shower with blood,a dressing for sacrifice!
And the taste of fresh human blood,
Disgusting that the same flows within her!
Still trapped in the worlds unknown and afar,
She screams and screams,
Mummy,mummy,mummy!
But her mother did not travel with her;
Her chest gets stuffed up like a congested nose in a cold;
And the pounding of her heart alerts the universe she's in danger
For it shakes the ground like an earthquake,
And before we sink into the earth with her in our hands,
Loose like untethered goats,we set her free from the terrific prank!
To go out and testify,
That romance isn't the only marker for diagnosing heart failure,
But also four letters used to make one word,
FEAR,
The theme around which nightmares form,
The major weakness of man, devil's tool!
Stress fractures
nerves worried faces
diagnosing ourselves
News bad good and bad flow from each
room
tears joy anxiety glee
Surgeons nurses physicians assistants
in out Xray MRI electro cardiogram
mumbles groans laughs
pains worries
anti-inflammatory analgesic ablation
bedside manner compassion
stoic silence brave exterior
resilient fragile young old
tired of hurting hurting tired
sterile antiseptic
STAT
replacement rehab rejuvenate rectify
Why me
biohazard no trash
bad magazines charts
forms forms forms
Hipa compliance
Hip replacement
shoulder pain
smolders
code blue code black
co-pay