Long Dysphoria Poems
Long Dysphoria Poems. Below are the most popular long Dysphoria by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dysphoria poems by poem length and keyword.
Fade-in to darkness
Blink slow, quicker ... eyes open
Still dark, but I can't go back to sleep again
I WON'T!
I feel like death ...
Exhausted, and such dysphoria
Oh, to go back into slumber and never wake again
Just to be free of this horrific feeling
But Life tugs ... just enough
Vague impressions of struggling
Gulping for breath ...
Heart beating through my chest to get air
Broken, fading memories of nightmares, deep
Dreams of drowning, being choked ...
Roped from a tree and swaying
Dangling feet twitching with my final gasps ...
Or sinking slowly ...
Tumbling into the abyss
Rays of sunlight light pillars
I grab for them, futile, as I swallow water
And fade into the cold depths ...
Or giant, sharp-nailed hands around my throat
Squeezing slowly as a sick grimace contorts and twists
Its cold breath spit in my face
Cartilage in my neck snapping, crunching
My breaths slowing ... gone.
Never exactly the same
But always the same outcome ...
NO AIR ... and struggle
Then waking to this depression and fatigue
So intense that I wish for my end
But responsibility forces me to rise ... again
And slowly ... slowly ... slowly ...
I feel a bit better
Say a prayer for the day
And hope that maybe ...
Maybe tonight ...
My apnea won't be quite as bad
Or the dreams ...
As terrifying.
* FIRST PLACE in the "Morning Ritual" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Sponsor. *
To all the male members
of the praying mantis species
a word to the wise you guys
now pay attention to my theses
whether for fun you recreate
or to mate and procreate
it's something I really would not advocate
hold on tight to your pants
love at first sight is not romance
I don't care if you look
but never dare go so far
as to unhook her bra
and whatever you do don't lose your head
as before postcoital dysphoria sets in
the female will kill you dead
she'll make a meal of you
tear you limb from limb
and if you don't believe me
when last did you see our randy brother Jim?
I ride this wave of fantasy
that sends my desires astir.
What dreams may come
from the spiraling are yet
to vaporize in the stars.
The ebb and flow become
the tide of dysphoria
as I ride this crest of fantasy
to the Cancri netherworld
and I roil from its heat!
My soul aches from the pain
and I search for euphoria
through a new fantastical wave
and find the coolness I seek
in Uranus’ aquamarine comfort.
The white caps are the stars
that move me among the planets,
my energy spinning with the tides;
a maelstrom circling through
whirling and twirling consciousness.
Touring this universe of planets,
I spin through wave after
wave of fantastical,
precognitive dreams, muddled
and muddied as I return to shore.
Plucking the Poisonous Parrot
Antonia had been a happy go lucky flamingo until her wings cracked
Now cascades of monotonous voices extracted venomous bickering
The parrot she took on as a charity case to quell her sadness now pecked
And would not shut up until the cage engulfed both vicious black souls
In her black box of contempt and too tired to shine life plucked away
Her coat tarred and feathered hanging from a thread of Munch’s scream
She attempted to touch away the poisonous croaking until she hung
Upside down from the swing with her head drowning in char coaled paint
Which oozed into her every pore morose and devoid of harmony’s rainbow
She became so void that all chakras burned in toxic cantankerous fire
Beatings of her life parroted a cacophonous mind pierced and exploding
Until everything shattered even her deafening malignant resentment
When the clock struck midnight and there was nothing more to vanish
But her Self and the stained melancholy sheet of dysphonic dysphoria
She remembered Oscar of the novel The Tin Drum shouting so loudly
That her crystal dysmorphic mirror imploded and bars bent under the strain
With her last resolve she plucked the parrot and An-Tonia was free
Colours shone brightly once again and the voices were good
She buried the bird under an olive tree with a song of epitaph’s prayer
And kept one single feather to remind her just in case it was not yet dead
20th January 2019
Contest entered: Free style poetry contest sponsored by Emily Pinet
Stumbling through the language of the city,
I walked today
through the middle of a battlefield.
Blood.
Death.
Destruction.
And yet, tomorrow
will bring another new beginning.
A brooding, reverberating,
suffocating silence.
A shattered, broken world.
I plunge my hands into the earth
and paint a picture of revolution.
After a long life in exile,
I return to the village
and find how much
the homes and settlements have changed.
The traces of my childhood
are no longer there.
My eyes fill with tears.
Scattered, rough-edged pebbles,
broken branches of trees,
fragments of shells.
And yet, carrying all their mysteries
and adventures,
they return to me,
again and again.
wipe themselves
the tears in my eyes away.
For so long,
I have told the next generation
so many lies.
Now I have folded myself inward,
away from my own self.
Gender dysphoria,
distress, puberty blockers,
the search for gender identity,
hormone therapy.
Gender transition
continues to unfold
by individual choice.
Boys become girls,
girls become boys.
And even that
gives some people
a headache.
You hear dumb people screaming it
all over the networks today,
latest excuse for censorship,
“Hate speech! Hate Speech!” they always say.
They’ve even pushed some governments
to think that it’s a real thing,
politicos lusting for power
are only too eager in helping.
A true Orwellian idea,
every busy-body’s greatest wish;
but there’s no such thing as ‘Hate Speech,’
you’re scum if you think that there is.
Free speech has been long protected,
and there is good reason for that,
public exchange of all ideas
is what weeds the good from the bad.
Did not free speech allow debate
on whether the slaves should be free?
Did not the south deem it ‘hateful’
when call on their hypocrisy?
Did not it allow Jim Crow’s lash
to be dragged out into the light?
Can the woke cultists of today
be so utterly sure they’re correct?
Or with free speech are they afraid
that they’re evil might just be next?
Because the way they act these days
one cruel fact cannot be ignored,
had social media existed
Abe Lincoln would have been censored.
To dare speak out on freeing slaves
would have been seen as a real risk;
but there’s no such things as ‘Hate Speech,’
you’re scum if you think that there is.
Free speech must play the social role
of showing uncomfortable truths,
like a parent using tough love
to impart something to the youth.
You say Gender Dysphoria
increases chance of suicide,
they blather that you are ‘hateful,’
they’d rather let those people die.
You point our single motherhood
destroys children in the long run,
they scream out that you ‘hate women!
What’s wrong is a girl has some fun?
But school shooters and locked-up cons
all seem to come from broken homes,
depression, drop-outs, job failure
these correlations are well-known.
We used to speak about such things,
to save our daughters from this fate,
now society falls apart
because dumb leftists call it ‘hate.’
If it can’t be called to account
the destructiveness will persist;
there is no such thing as hate speech,
you’re scum if you think that there is.
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
People feel something lacking at their core
and worry they are nobody, living meaningless lives.
Depressives dwell on this existential dread
(susceptible then to projecting it outward in paranoid fantasies
of climate change, gender dysphoria, and political turmoil),
the less privileged just accept it
as the nature of life, the nature of all things.
It all comes down to how big a ball of desire
we bring along as baggage;
the larger the desire, the greater the disappointment
with the lack at our core.
As infants this desire makes up our whole universe.
Once mature, we see our desire as tiny,
infinitesimal in comparison to the rest of life.
And yet, even a small ball of desire can be difficult.
Difficult is always manageable. And difficult is rewarding.
But the true nature of us, of life, is that we are a nobody,
and that the accomplishment and reward of difficult
is just another vanity.
Being nobody, going nowhere, Life unfolds naturally,
like the seasons, like the passage of a day.
And although the effortless is not difficult
it has its own rewards.
As Lao Tsu once said:
The wise consider themselves “orphaned,” “widowed,” and “worthless.”
Their humility is the source of their strength.
Too much success is not an advantage…
(4/22/23)
I've spoken to a raindrop; It listened so intently in its special way
A life so blessed that I never want to end; my only wish is to stay
I've whispered to a raindrop; it offered me seclusion in its special way
Of my thoughts darkest collusion, a demon’s fire it would offer to slay
I've confided in a raindrop; It held onto my hand in its special way
Shared all my tears as they're hidden safely, my secrets discreetly stored away
I've divulged into a raindrop; it touched my salted cheeks in its special way
Special is the way, it asked me to walk with it, while it down poured for a day
I've disclosed into a raindrop; what my heart wouldn't dare in its special way
Next time I see the storm, I will listen, never leaking what it has to say
I've imparted to a raindrop; its value proposition is its special way
Within this budding liquid friendship our love is so much more fluid per se
I've lay bare into a raindrop; dysphoria concealed in a special way
So thankful, I am for all this rain, clouding another wonderful birthday
It’s 2023 and the world wants to know
‘What is a woman?’
Apparently now all it takes is call yourself one
and, poof, you are.
Which means we have finally arrived
in the post-modern nightmare of objectiveless fantasy.
In this fantasy definitions and identities
are as fluid as genders.
Fee, I want to be a billionaire
as I demand the bank give me their money.
Fi, I’m a doctor now, no degree required,
so pay up insurance.
Fo, just give me all your stuff shop owner
private property is an illusion but I deserve my fair share.
Fum, if you can’t see me for who I say I am,
then you are a racist, bigot, cockroach, charlatan TERF!
In this fantasy, real problems are pushed away
discarded in the historical heap of objectionable truth.
Instead, 1st World problems rule
micro-aggressions and imaginal fears you need a PhD to discern.
Meanwhile, the real world wants to know about the woman thing,
there are children crying,
real flesh and blood progeny,
born and unborn
reaching out in desperation for a little perspective and comfort
in a world that has gone mad
figuratively, literally
each of us now an Alice struggling
in her own existential black hole
to come of age.
(6/9/23)
"Why must we suffer hardships and disease?"
we ask. Pain? Hunger? War? Adversity?
Death? Misery!?...Our best philosophy
cannot put these concerns to rest or ease.
Dysphoria, psychosis, pathologies
of the mind—subjects of psychology
that are all causes of man's malady:
the tragic end of these infirmities
is suicide! But we're not without hope
or God's compassion, as today we go
on, heal, survive, live, and thrive as we cope;
it's easy to lose hope when we are low
and in despair; but we are in God's scope,
too: this put your faith and trust in, and know.