Long Hypochondriac Poems
Long Hypochondriac Poems. Below are the most popular long Hypochondriac by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hypochondriac poems by poem length and keyword.
How can human deal with all the other animals with a sense of indisputable superiority? What makes them keep mollycoddling the mean motive of extracting from other animals as much as possible while paying little love or care?
In their eyes, our husbandry only meets their needs for fur, yet our holocaust serves perfectly to decelerate the covid's spread. What a horrible horde of "hypochondriac" hotspurs! Hence nothing but the humanistic & humanitarian outrage's outstretch has sped!
Mauling in flagrant air, they're unscrupulous in self-warranted villainies as the ruling species. Moaning in despair, we're in no position to defend ourselves as cheaply disposable herds. Sweeping and speeding, they have a crash compensation for covid curse coming their way by commencing a cruel culling campaign over pro-peace populations. Weeping and bleeding, we're creating poignant literatures which will snivel sanguinary historicity for later generations.
Does their ferocity really mitigate their discomfiture? Let's take a glimpse at the present picture------which can't be more self-evident------ As a series of crackdowns of necessity get under way:
Large-scale lockdown, shutdown, quotidian curfew, social contact constrictions, manifold travel and transport bans continually and constantly upset human's regular hours and cadences, all walks of life lapsing into doldrums or even standstills and every sector wading strenuously in the swamp of slump, covid sets out an exclusive trip at great ease, staging a worldwide itinerant show in extravagant style, pestering human being all around the globe, tossing them into a vicious circle of "everywhere they've fled, nowhere for them to flee", taunting their knock-off caliber in comparison to a veritable calamity of public hygiene and smashing their transgressive turgidity and turpitude inexorably and mercilessly. But ironically, the more toughly the real corona of covid gets human pinched, the more tightly human gets their imaginary corona clinched, of which the title presumes to be the universe's sole supreme, in which the content, however, contributes to sciosophist's sloppy ream.
Battery Check
I had better say this before it is too late
& I'm doing a battery check
down at the School of the Americas
badda boom mafia rim shot
the old wisdoms are newly or neo-inadequate
all of them every one
even the Arctic and Antarctic ones
he was a master of pedestrian insights
banal bourgeoisie profundities
packaged for the pop psychology lecture circuit
which hasn't got the people smarter faster
because buzzard shadows make the dogs bark
fangs missing the juggler completely
such a klutz whose eyes see nothing
the smell of carrion fur
has him growling at my lunarscape
drips blood across my dying lips
after the blackness of the old battle
and
amen
good observation kid
state of pure vulnerability
how much delusion can we rid ourselves of
while remaining ambulatory and sane
begging for rescue or a signal from the North
like a black widow at the movies
web over the projection hole
making time into the enemy
when it should be the enema
or obsolete as clown paint
and the pet tarantula craze
every kid had one beaten into him
in a wilderness of anachronisms
where it's the adrenals vs. the endorphins
both of them a film noir fun house mirror
one with a severe penalty for miscalculation
the other giving us the freedom
to destroy our soul
you need only see the obvious
criminally reckless manhood
hypochondriac womanhood
foretelling the future ain't a big deal
a child with a gun can do it
gun because nobody wants to hear it
apparently we haven't invented
pain free illumination yet
batteries not included
because they are not needed
because we are modifiable
in a good way
by our own hand
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
no diminution in tiredness arose
gnome hatter how off tin ma dis bows
Zoe let his bot tee succumb,
via mental application
of autogenic phrases
and/or counting crows
cuz upon awakening,
aye immediately wanted ta doze,
thus this artful dodger hankered to expose
extreme cockamamy idea incumbent,
where corporeal essence gets froze
zen, the scientific procedure named
emergency preservation
and resuscitation (EPR)
more familiarly known
as suspended animation
pursuant under the appellation cryogenics,
where living tissue no longer grows
old, a wishful yearning
approximating immortality i sup hose,
yet this copacetic drowsy
generic human struggled in vain
trying with utmost effort to stay awake
Swiss to hobnob among urbane
feeling helpless (fearing
he might be narcoleptic),
nonetheless aye didst train
intent concentration
(and/or feeble exertion mustered)
to swat away worrisome thought
this hypochondriac,
could be afflicted with mononucleosis
since lassitude less likely sprung
from overcast and rain
knee skies, which type weather
generally energies me
to conjure a quatrain
sometimes complex versus
written straight away plain
panacea hit upon finally
to ward off sleepiness,
whereby literary endeavor
boosted by a strong brew
namely fair trade
manufactured coffee chew
zing among socially conscious entities,
and hoping to do
some dollop of positivity
without fanfare I eschew
to fulfill personal hue
man conscientious anonymous impact
that some benefit will en sue.
"Damn, do I really have to go? Do I?"
That's my thought bubble, every time.
I don't know what it is about hospital visits;
Like many, if not all, I hate it like I do cockroaches.
There's something dreadfully morbid
About making these trips, even when
I'm just picking up a prescription.
I bet a hypochondriac feels differently
On my way, my mind gets flooded with
Disturbing imagery of folks bleeding and dying;
Injection needle going into a vein in my arm.
"Ouch!," you say. I know, right? I recoil
At the phrase, "blood work." Call me chicken,
But I'd rather recuperate at home, thank you!
Going to the emergency room almost feels like
I'm headed to the gallows, nope, no kidding!
I sit morosely in the waiting area
For what seems like an eternity
Wondering why I came in the first place;
My inner child growing increasingly jumpy!
Is it just me or does it always feel
Too long at the doctor's office?
He could be simply talking to me
About the weather and my anxious,
Impatient brain would be
In panic mode...
"Are you softening me up for something, Doc? What ails me?
I'll be okay, right? Right!? Stop beating around the bush!"
Well I'm a bit agoraphobic so I stay at home for my aerobics but it's not good for my dome to play alone in a silence cone so I faced my fear but that outpaced my cheer since I also chased my fear of flying which induced my fear of dying, so my aerophobia produced my necrophobia and in rolled the storm which truth be told isn't out of norm but in regular form here I am seeing strobic lightning while I'm fleeing in astraphobic frenzy frightening so much so I hid inside a cupboard and cried until my eyes were blurred but then a thought occurred that's not absurd but I began to feel microbic since I am real claustrophobic so back outside toward the trees but dendrophobia brought me to my knees so eyes squeeze shut, to ease my queasy gut and I stand uneasy only to fall to my butt and manage to fall into a hole so not only am I trypophobic but in there with me is a roe buck brought up my elafiphobia and I snuck out but he fought out and caught up in the muck and folks, he was a big one so as he reared up guess what flared up, major megalophobia spell and I beg ya, you have no idea, hell, the worst of it all was this curse not so small, not even racing, buck chasing, out of control, falling in holes, making blunders during thunder, wish I could shrink down to a mouse and be back in my little house as the worst of the worst, bubble burst, first on this wicked list of these hard to say, wish they'd go away, overdrawn, ridiculously LONG named phobias, is Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, iconically ironic cruel kind of jewel, fit for this hypochondriac fool.
There comes and goes blood of immortal ones
virgins crying without dropping tears
we will hear sad and sorrow songs
in which title is shame and the chorus death.
The pity one is that stupid little girl
who had danced long time ago
without any melody or drum beating
do I have to sing for her?
my song will be full of hate
sadness
madness
cries
sorrow and hopeless
will she be able to dance or to assist?
There comes a war, eternal one
where nobody will know an other
where everyone will be strangers to everyone
the mothers will kill their own babies
husbands will abuse their own daughters
and the grandmothers will sleep with their little sons.
The sky will be black with a red sign
the rain will be red with a rainbow of two colors
purple and move.
There come crying babies with blood tears
shouting and moaning of sorrow and sadness
no one to hear them, only cats and dogs
fighting for their blood tears.
No place for talking peaceful things but for damned things
who can take time of looking in the sky at that time?
everyone will be in darkness of feelings.
I will be sorry for the moms who will be pregnant that time
the babies in their belly will ignite them before born
and there will come some hypochondriac
even when some will try to give birth
their husband will took their babies and eat them.
No house will be belonging on this world
they would be flight away
there will be only holes of idolatry
the hot air will be praising the God
but the world will become a hotbed of crime.
Will I arrive on time??
You, trickster, you
Thinking you could play me for a fool
But I know this game better than you
And ‘I told you so’ only goes so far
Words only mean so much
And you’re full of them
I see through every one of your crosses and loops
Oh, but I cover mine up so well
No erase marks, no open tops
Just like the word was never there
You think you know all the rules
Well I bend them until I snap
That’s how I get away with it
But it doesn’t work for you, now does it?
You snap before you bend-
That’s how you give yourself away
You’ll never learn if you haven’t already
Seen what I’ve seen:
A neurotic
Paranoid
Narcissistic
Histrionic
Hypochondriac
But who’s to blame? It’s learned behavior
Can we teach each other?
No-only influence
Just know, I have more ways around things
And do you care?
-None of us do
That is what makes us what we are
Creatures of habit; addicted to cycles
You say you’re in love sweetheart
Is that so?
You’ve told yourself this before, I’m sure
Only you can count the times you’ve been mistaken
Look at me-
Me and my naïve self
We are both projectors
Bedlam should be the place to be
But who am I kidding?
I’m a fool just as much as you
Tisk, tisk
Benzodiazepines only do so much
-Like words
But a little goes a long way, if you concentrate
However, a little extra goes further
Ha!
Just look at us-
We are beautiful, are we not?
Written April 4, 2011
Form:
THE CAR HAS EARS
by Charles Eastland
(also Kindle eBook: Selected Poems by Charles Eastland)
Shhh shhh…whisper
that news about extra money—
shhh…don’t say it…
the car has ears
I tell you truthfully
from experience, the car knows
when money is coming
it may be clairvoyant
shhh don’t repeat a word
be prudent in your thoughts, if
you pass it in the lot
the car has ears
come over here
I’ll tell you something else—
the car is a hypochondriac
if it hears money is coming
it will surely get sick, that’s right
its carburetor will develop a sudden cough
its wheels will wobble
the choke will choke
its shoes will need soles
its eyes will get dim—anything!
it’ll shiver and shake
and throw a tantrum at every red light
and if you don’t give it the money
it will purposely quit in the middle of intersections
you either give up the money or walk
it’s a bandit I tell you!
and I’ll tell you what’s spooky
about my car—so listen
whatever the amount of the windfall
its service bill will match it
almost to the dollar and cents
that’s right—many, many times
it’s happened like clock work
I tell you truthfully
from experience, the car has ears
don’t repeat this to anyone
shhh don’t say it—
be prudent in your thoughts
if you pass my car in the lot
because the car has ears
and a mouth that speaks
about you
Deep in a hole, no more an abyss.
Searching for light, or source of escape
Knowing neither, why or how
I buried myself, deep under ground
Suffering for weeks, Absent of Joy
Bed inescapable, a fortress of hell.
Stress constantly crushing, onto chest:
Like a steel anvil, heavy with anger
they mock me, quiet, distant,
happy, even ecstatic facial gestures.
The condition isn't physical, So:
He must be, "just be lazy!"
Is Escape Possible, when your mind is prison?
No diagnostic test, accurate enough exist,
Cause unclear, lacking visible trauma,
No damage, Specialist Labeled, "Hypochondriac"
The 21st Century, Modern and Advanced:
Mental illness, stigmatized still?
If you want to feel better, Then:
"Use some Will, JESUS!"
Twenty two days, three hours sleep.
Ten days later, awake just two.
Attempt again, to will my function....
Still, Constant , Feeling won't change....
"Manic Depressive,a Frustrating Myth"
Hendrix mentally anguished, Architect of self demise.
Condition Labeled new, Politically Correct.
Wishing once, they lived, briefly, in this brain.
Willing a change, Still suffering the same,
Imagine a Second, daily, praying for change.
three Attempts failed, at medicating me sane
Wishing the cure, simple-minded as your advice:
"Try Harder"
Stopped into an old junk-antique shop, found a favorite
The music collection of famous Ravishanker, the sitarist
Just I was going to walk out as I was short of dollar eight
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned round with spite
A man said” The music, too, was his dead wife’s favorite"
He gave me the money, before I thank him left the site.
Went home, listen through his and mine ears with delight.
There was a celebrated physician with great foresight
Had an old lady as patient with a hypochondriac sight
Suffering from all kinds of diseases of imaginary fright
Once she called him, he wrote a prescription straight
She confessed, she took the medicine and was alright
The note was “Do something for someone” to your might.
The trees are known by their fruits, a man by his deeds right
Man has three friends- wealth, relatives, and deeds to highlight
First goes with him, second up to grave, deeds beyond Christ
********************
The famous Pandit Ravishanker, Sitar player maestro, the Indian music instrument like
Guitar, living in Hollywood.
=====================================================
Eighth place win in:
Contest: Good deeds sponsored by Dane Ann Smith-Johnson