Long Ocd Poems
Long Ocd Poems. Below are the most popular long Ocd by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ocd poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm not sure where I am sometimes Mentally.
I Lose the line between whats fiction and Reality.
I look around the room after moments of being thoughtless,
just to realize i never left and the keys still in my pocket.
I chase the shadows from the walls and watch them disappear in to the cracks
I scream at the door, my heart is racing, they call them "Panic attacks"
I rewrite these same passages in books that over flow ,
Each one is slightly different that i can't just let them go.
I Call my mother bawling and I can't find the strength to stand
I'm Sobbing on the floorboards with a blade within my hands,
I count the seconds that turn into minutes turning them over in my mind,
I know Shes on her way but what if she doesn't get here in time?!
I'm lost, I can't see because this once brightly lit room its littered with spots of black,
I can't remember how to breathe each breaths coming out is gasps.
Every thing is tight and I feel like i'm suffocating,
Like a ropes around my neck and my feet are beneath me hanging.
I try to take deep breaths and i feel the fire in my lungs,
Burning me with every inhale another scream leaps from my tongue,
I Call Justin Crying and I Don't even know what happened,
One minute i was fine the next i heard someone else's fingers tapping.
I found myself confined to the room that keeps me safe,
That same room is the room i now can't escape..
I'm Dialing 911 and my hands are shaking so bad the phone is Blurry.
I'm yelling at myself "Mom, I need You, Please get here, Please Hurry!"
I'm terrified, I'm running so many Scenarios through my head,
I Feel just like a child, Afraid from the monsters beneath my bed.
I can hear the van outside, I hear foot steps in the hall,
Then all at once the Noises stop like they were never there at all!
I open the door to an embrace that brings my back to Reality.
I'm so ing sorry..
Because Loving Me Is A Tragedy.
Form:
Constance was a hoarder.
Her life was out of order.
She lived in a mess
I must confess
I would not like to be a boarder.
Nobody could walk in the door,
Excrement and junk covered the floor,
She could not throw anything away,
She collected more rubbish each day,
Items she had no use for.
Constance fed the cat, dog and the rabbit,
Who all had disgusting habits
Which made the house smell
And it was a living hell,
For her neighbour, Mrs Crabbit.
There was no room to move in the house
Even the rats and flies, and mouse
Found it a squeeze
Made them all sneeze
Even the parrot had a louse.
Poor Constance had a compulsion,
She had a disorder and didn't have a notion,
How strange this would be
For you and me
When we showed our revulsion.
What a dreadful affliction
A hard-to-understand addiction
They need to change
But it's challenging to rearrange
And go in another direction.
Life is not as sweet as a bowl of golden glace cherries,
nor is there a golden illuminated future for a fruitless mind.
Trembling hands and gritted teeth disguise my disorderly brain,
feeling lost in the mist,
surrounded by drowned out voices.
Deceptive chanting charms plant everyday confusion,
with stalking emotions running through my mind's corridors,
carrying a voice that gives birth to eerie echoing funnels,
pumping frustrating thoughts deep into the depths of phobias.
My demeanour hides behind a canvass of mysteries.
a pure transfiguration, where compulsive obsession
takes possession of stalking my vulnerable affections.
There's too much repetition in the fluidity of periods and seasons,
as I lose this battle to control my will's strength of life.
I constantly wonder if the only place of victory,
to find peace,
is to slay silent intoxicating depths,
which desire to explore me.
But in reality despise me with conflicting contradictions unable
to stop my puzzled conscious suffocating from over analysing,
enslaving excessive dwellings from every aspect of my existence.
Life is not a jigsaw,
I do not have the energy to find every piece.
My soul's fine heaven is rimming with untold tales of nature,
but misjudged precious intentions result in distracted actions.
An angst which has no remedy as all scars remains unseen.
But my Fears are made into gems,
when alone with my nemesis,
an unwanted life long partner
feeding upon deranged dilemmas,
which keep my mind,
spiralling in circles of uncertainties.
(Pema, 2018)
OCD
Working on compiling and editing my latest project
even my dreams become an obsessive loop
of cutting and pasting words and images
mostly just the same few over and over
placeholder symbols for other symbols
that must have some meaning,
or at least the potential for it.
And I see how this in itself is a poem
suggestive of something intangible
yet clearly tangibly connected
to the root idea
the basic framework
the pattern of habitual ways and means
my life is built upon.
….The second night I do this (yep, it continues),
highlighting and clicking ‘return’ for titles
they become grand sweeping ecstatic dances
the characters of my dream
– all my gathered selves, including the pug -
execute without the need of external music
in foot deep powdery snow….
And I see how this adds an element
which the bare bones of a written or spoken poem lacks
yet implicitly holds;
the completion of a circle where the experiences of living
are blended in the crucible of thought and memory
to be embodied again in symbolic form
as Life continues in endless synthesis of everything
that has come before.
And I wake knowing the project is complete
the two sides, conscious and unconscious, fully interpenetrated
reaching a critical mass of creative excitement
a chain reaction of symbols
unleashed in and on and from imaginal space.
(December, 2018)
What does it feel like to drown.
I don't know.
But I do know what it feels like to sink.
The world's eyes are on me but I can't see them back.
I look down but there is no ground.
My head starts pounding.
What do I have to do to stop.
What must I do to get my head to stop twisting around and around.
I'm not an owl. My skin is tearing.
My neck hurts but my head is still spinning.
I can't call out for help because they will fall into this tornado with me.
I don't know what to do.
How do I startle my nervous system.
Cold water is too far away.
I can't do this.
I must do this.
Crap. That was too far.
It's flooding. What do I do.
I can't stop it. What do I do.
My head hurts.
I can't breath.
I'm asphyxiating.
I love living with my OCD,
But a disorder it is not.
I work in the local library you see,
Where books have their own spot.
I threw out the Dewey system,
And bought books with colourful spines.
And now every book is arranged in groups,
Under their colourful signs.
There’s red books and blue books, and
The groups of black, white and green.
So now the library is all organised,
Into a rainbowed sort of a theme.
Some folks seem to think I’m jumbled,
Creating a muddled type of mess.
But I disagree one hundred percent with them,
I am an ordered success.
Hi, this was written 11th Oct 2016 for contest 224 of and judged on 17th Oct hope you enjoyed this one :)
Obsessive, cumpulsive disorder,
OCD,
Intrusive thoughts,
OCD,
Overthinking
OCD,
However you want to say it,
It all means the same thing,
It means sleepless nights,
Pages and pages of writing,
long walks, with no music playing,
Because the voice in your head keeps you entertained,
It’s overthinking until there’s nothing more to think about,
But you’ll never get to that point,
Because there’s always something,
It’s getting stressed out about the little things,
Because everything matters to you,
It’s replaying convos in your head months after they’ve happened,
But you keep doing it,
Because somewhere between then and now somethings changed,
You just don’t know what,
You wish you did,
But you dont,
It’s planing conversations prior to doing them,
But them never actually happening,
Because that’s what OCD is,
It’s thinking of every possible scenario,
But forgetting the possibility of never running into them,
Never needing to talk about it,
Never being asked the question you thought would come up,
Its a hard thing to live with,
But there’s no escape,
There is no way to stop thinking,
The more you try the worse it gets,
But saying it’ll never get better is false,
Because it does get better,
Eventually you’ll learn how to manage,
But manage doesn’t mean solve,
Manage doesn’t mean fix,
Manage doesn’t make the pain go away,
Manage means it’ll become liveable,
Tolerable,
Bearable,
But the pain never fully stops,
The headache never fully goes away,
But the voice in your head will learn to whisper,
As you find your peace,
But it will never stop talking,
And that’s the way it should be,
Because that voice is you,
It makes you who you are,
Without it,
You wouldn’t quite be the same.
As much as you want it to leave you alone,
And you’ll spend nights banging your head,
Trying to silence it,
It won’t leave,
It’s apart of you,
And making it leave is cruel,
Because you couldn’t live without it.
So although it sucks most of the time,
And it can often ruin your mood,
It also makes you care so much,
It makes you never forget the good times,
It makes you nervous and excited for what the future holds,
So if I had the option to live without my OCD,
I’d say no,
Because it’s me,
And I am it,
And I am so grateful for that
Most people notice my sunny disposition,
one that can cause blindness & irreparable skin damage.
They remark on the fact that all of my poetry
is so cheerful and positive,
wonder how a person who finds everything so funny,
could ever be sad about anything.
But what they don't know is that,
I, like most other people,
have encountered my fair share of difficulty.
How my brain is an inhospitable residence
I only stay in because I was forced to make my home there.
However, what goes on behind closed doors
remains a mystery to the ignorant.
As a child, I laid prone on the floor,
organizing my toy cars,
and later, books on a shelf.
Flying into a frenzy when someone messed them up;
invariably causing more disorder in my wake.
Anxious moments spent, gnawing on fingers & toes,
nails chewed off into jagged calcium crescents.
Nervous air-drumming when I'm writing or stressed,
or my bouncing knee when I'm patient or
trying to quickly get through a book.
Not so fond memories of standing alone in corners,
away from the crowd,
when having confidence was an unrealized
pipe-dream I feverishly entertained.
No man's an island,
but I've been a peninsula
who took pleasure in his eroding shores.
What normal kid talks to himself and has night terrors?
What 6th grader has an identity crisis,
especially to the extent of believing he doesn't exist or
is incapable of going back to a way of being
that made him comfortable;
how he felt like a stranger to himself, family, and friends?
The weight of depression straddled me to the point that I
wished for a broken leg like a horse running the gauntlet.
Warnings of ed up family members--
therapists, mental institutions, lives of reclusion...
how close I ran the risk of becoming like them.
But, at least, I have the perfect conditions for making art.
Even if weird thoughts sometimes strike at inconvenient moments...
I wouldn't wish being normal
on my worst enemy,
because I once wished it on myself,
and I've finally realized I can use my tendencies to my benefit.
In pursuit of imperfect perfection,
she slowly turned every lucky star blind,
drowning in constant chores from obsession,
unable to appease her stormy mind.
Promises ascend against perception,
nothing halts fixed rituals from spinning,
as turmoils of time twirl through aggression,
she sees the devilish mantra winning.
What is left when breathing becomes a pain?
whilst malignant fears urge for reliance,
spiky succulents perish faith in vain
frantically panicking in silence.
day bleeds into repetitive debate—
Emotive wildfires stir despair and hate.
emotive wildfires
appease her stormy mind blind
stir despair and hate
breathing becomes a pain~in the pursuit of imperfect perfection
Am I a freak?
I pick my skin until I bleed
It brings me peace and comfort
Google says it’s my mental health or OCD
It goes away for weeks, but when it comes back I have to feed
My fingers just pick my skin without notice
Now my thumbs look atrocious
I’m an addict minus the drugs and liquor
Now I’m officially a bloodsucker because of this disorder
I need to sleep
But I don’t stop until I feel the need
Can they tell?
I just picked my skin until I bleed
They ask “What happen to your thumb?”
And I turn numb
This is embarrassing
Enough is enough
Sadly I wish that’s all I could say to make this stop
If I’m sad or upset
I would pick my skin until I need to rest
What’s wrong with me?
I think I need help
Back when I was unemployed and depressed
I picked my skin to ease the stress
But it got so bad I couldn’t walk with sense
Yea it’s official
I need help
Nowadays it’s not as bad
But I still keep a box of bandaids on hand
I wish this disorder was fake or a fantasy
Unfortunately, it’s my reality
I think it’s because of my anxiety
I try to stop but it’s like trying not to pee as soon as you wake up
I need help with my sobriety