Long Psychoanalysis Poems
Long Psychoanalysis Poems. Below are the most popular long Psychoanalysis by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Psychoanalysis poems by poem length and keyword.
Just me and mine shadow doth blog
passivity, the path of least resistance oh my dog,
an emphatic YES,
a legitimately valid reason and rhyme to flog
yours truly (figurative emasculation),
thee catchword to hog
immediate attention,
see above named poem title
the best idea to expound upon,
while attempting creative juices to jog
all mein kampf, I felt like a bump on a log
please... don't be hesitant
to identify me as a nog
one aging long haired pencil neck geek
never reached maturity forever a pollywog.
More clearly, plainly and succinctly
one sniveling poor excuse for masculinity,
I continually experience
unrepentant (unforgivable) humility,
hence lame justification
Matthew Scott sought adultery,
which unwise choice attempted
(pun intended) to fill a void
sexual propensity linkedin with precepts
attributed to Sigmund Freud,
though skepticism skirts
barenaked lady hardcore psychoanalysis
downplayed or Oedipus complex
shrugged off (heavier imposition
versus Atlas) fails to bridge any mettle alloyed
within me psyche.
Absent healthy teenage
dating experiences, think tryst
I yearned, trended then
regretted handy dandy wrist
took rat tick antics subsequently,
and compromised spawning prurient dalliances,
hence understandably missed
(until death do me part)
doting upon then young daughters,
rightfully thee eldest one
(born 12/22/1996) still pissed
at primal, gonadal, and brutal predilections
now... finding very little reason to exist
matter of fact I dreamt
(earlier today June twenty seventh
two thousand and twenty), the gist
regarding harming self
SELF PORTRAIT
To be objective about oneself is hard
All the others’ competing observations
Reluctant to let them into a conclusion
Yet one remains trapped in confusion
Despite all those awkward aberrations
A basic personality cannot be marred
To see a mirror image is just one view
A painted portrait offers yet another
But with no accuracy in introspection
It can always benefit from correction
It’s a close call from one’s twin brother
But for most, they do not have a clue
A photograph may capture one look
But underneath you know it’s unreal
That big fake smile, just for prosperity
As one waved goodbye to all sincerity
Never sure about how one may feel
So many characteristics in the book
A unique tattoo may carry a stigma
Identity may never be quite the match
Under hypnosis, one can be anyone
But as psychoanalysis has finally begun
Even if one is labelled a suspect batch
Who one may be, remains an enigma
We’re at a nice restaurant in Saint Tropez, it’s nice
to get out every couple of days. To see people having
fun on a warm summer night.
A couple at the next table are talking, a bit loudly, about
Freud. You know - envies, irrepressible subconscious urges.
Well, the middle aged man was, not the young, high school
looking woman.
At first, I’m just lowercase eye rolling about his intellectual
noise but after about 30 minutes, I’m considering legal action.
I hate psychoanalysis like I hate philosophy - the pointless
arguments - the public performance of deep thinking
- it’s social boredom - the violence of language.
The poor guys date - was this dinner patter or a TED Talk?
It seemed more like an endurance test. Who does Freud’s
grand theory of misery impress anyway?
Maybe the guy was taking a class. Freud’s theories are considered
unscientific these days - not to mention socially and morally suspect
- that’s not my opinion, check Adolf Grünbaum, Frederick Crews and
Ludwig Wittgenstein, to name a few - Sigmund Freud was a Sigmund fraud.
Just about the time my contempt was snapping like a match,
I heard Peter saying, “Anais.. which appetizer did you want?”
“What?” I ask, as if I’ve just been awakened. Looking up, I see
Peter and the waiter huddled over the menu - waiting.
“Oh, Oysters on the half-shell,” I said, like a question.
The spell was broken, I won’t burn down the room..
And before you say it, my whole inner life is NOT annoyance,
it’s a defense mechanism - I’m not built to suffer quietly.
.
.
A song for this:
Chained To The Rhythm (Official) ft. Skip Marley by Katy Perry
aIn an information culture,
evocation is more important;than
explicit saying counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
the incoherencies
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more
It’s got something to do with being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.
Because it hears what’s underneath
Within or hiding.
Wanting to be found
But unable to get the words
Psychoanalysis
Vanity and ecstasy overwhelm the minds of people
Who gloat with conceit and display
Pompous arrogance as they parade themselves
Before the public as chosen vessels for behavioural
Rewards, determined by themselves as acceptable
To indulge in the belittling of others!
This defines their existence as noble in cause.
When they, the elite, rendezvous with fate
And perceive themselves to be unique,
Superior beings segregated from those
Who are weak-minded and susceptible
To interpretations and suggestions;
Who have no reason to exist, nor possess
Finesse attributes, and cannot be distinguished
From the herd mentality by the intellectual process
Of their egotistic minds—or so they think!
This precarious attitude can be judgmental
And dissociating; it invites dismal consequences.
Out of touch with reality and full of themselves,
They gallivant through branches in the tree of knowledge
And haphazardly arrive at false conclusions.
Based on a biased perception of the world
That only they can understand as rational,
It gives credence to psychoanalysis.
Sound familiar? And so you hope
Others will be hoodwinked by your antics
Into believing you are nonchalant when,
In actuality, you are stressed out and nervous
To be discovered as introverted.
You will not acquiesce to truthful criticism.
It is a depraved mind that derives pleasure
From the dissection of another.
Got Any Ideas For A Poem?
Ha! That catch phrase
(kid ding lee writ)
hoop fully goat yar attention
truth be told, (no...no...
no...not by me
boat some tee else of course)
mine min (yute) yen
for light banter i.e. badinage,
(this horny toad juiced ribbing...
frog git about it), yea,
I know that punning
while keying (NOT SAFE),
sometimes dill lutes
ma serious pickling attempt ren
doors an unsuspecting reader
(bajillion times out of zero) pen
ultimately probably discourages,
an increased virtual fanbase,
rectified by the following asinine
non-sequitur (a come men
dib bull double
entendre) totally tubularly
barbed with Freudian
slip age, that ken
figuratively grab immediate
interest of hen
pecked recipients (with pock marks
to prove such assertion)
might strongly concur even
without being aware how
psychoanalysis willy thrust
significance of phallus
in everyday affairs,
particularly how peppy
(even after applying
WD-40) can rust
and/or atrophy as if cell bait,
hence thee dick cree,
that intercourse a must
(as told by this husband
in a sexless marriage
as a result, I might
join a convent) as a lust
result, either that or
go set me a
watch woman as mistress
tubby integrated within
my private life
even if one
needs tubby bussed
from the outer limits of the
sterling twilight
zona pellucida ideally,
where love of c**t tree and
priapism maketh sea men go bust!
Just name the day, and I will be there.
This morning, the notification bells woke me up.
With sleep still in my eyes, I reached for my phone.
The tone lingered from that text in my ear:
"Annie, I love you, despite the tears."
We cannot ignore the world and its negativity.
A love like ours is clean and pure.
Love doesn’t have to shout; it resides in the honesty of a true confession.
Loving another person requires effort and commitment.
True love can be as simple as a newborn's trust in its mother;
There’s an immediate connection.
As we gaze into each other’s eyes,
We smile and acknowledge our past.
We both made our fair share of lies, each trying to outdo the other.
Was I the king of liars, or was he King Lear?
Balancing honesty with vulnerability is key.
Listen attentively, respond with warmth,
And communicate with body language.
I will hold my ground, and this fool will get back to you.
My interpretation of "fear not, want not" emphasizes that we often misjudge each other.
My greatest concern is why he walked
The dark streets of Accra at 3 a.m.
That’s when my psychoanalysis skills come into play:
The boy seeks love in familiar territories,
Chasing the street love of his childhood dreams.
I told him not to cut his hair;
That youthfulness can be deceiving.
Older men often take advantage of that desperate youth,
And that boyish charm can lead to trouble:
“Meat for the belly, and the belly for the meat.”
So, this morning, my answer is a firm no.
You can often gauge a man by how he behaves when he is hungry.
Only name the day, and I shall be there
This morning the notification woke me up
With still sleep in my eyes I reached for my phone
And the tone
lingers from that Twi in my ear
Annei I love you though, despites his tears
To forget the world, and they negativities
Of a love such as ours, it clean, it’s pure
Love does not speak volumes(quote)
It speaks the honesty of another one confession,
Loving another person is hard work,
Only true love to me is a newborn baby love
for its mother, he trusts her immediately
As we gaze into each other eyes,
We smile, we reminisce we both lied:
We try to outdo each other:
Was I king liar or was he king Lear?
Revealing too much, or revealing a little
Listen carefully, and responding with affection
Or simply use the body language
This fool will get back to you.
And old gal interpretation of fear not want not
We really don’t get each other:
My darkest fear is why did he walk
The dark street of Accura at 3.am?
That’s when my psychoanalysis study step in:
Where the boy seeks, love in an old familiar place
the street love of his childhood dream;
I asked of him not cut his hair
It makes him look like a youth,
Older men take advantage of desperate
Looking youth, because of the boyish look,
and that all it took:
Meat for the belly, and the belly for the meat(quote)
So, happily this morning I decline,
You learn a lot about a man by his behavior when hungry. ~ Zambian Proverb
We are always in Freud’s view,
blocking his visions
trying to contain ,
attempting to define,
psychoanalysis is
an uncontainable luxuriant over inflated
example of this.
Another green or hot -housed is the
the book itself and its cover
Becoming Freud ,the concept ‘s behind his birth
is part of Yale’s
Lives of the Quaint
which requires of the author not only
a present of Freud
but even goes off side
to make it “Jewish” as well.
There being no ingenious way,
he was so far
round this issue,
Phillips gives Freud’s
Jewishness a conveniently
unbiographical treatment.
At times so unscientific
as to be indeterministic,probably.
You know what I think/
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Surfacing from troubled dreams
becomes a hasty reshuffling of plausible realties.
One by one, flimsy fibs are tested,
then grudgingly rejected as improbable.
There are always reasons to arise
and remain perpendicular
even though we may be still following
a horizontal dysfunctional track or trace.
Time to chew over a few words,
let flow the in-the-know and bluff
until enough is done, said, published,
bruited abroad, proclaimed
as a hear-ye ambulating truth.
Proclamations and declarations,
that indeed we are all here
listening to each other
explaining away our on-going
disorderly mental ponderings -
for of course,
psychoanalysis is far less revealing
that our daily abstracted, distracted,
rambling perambulations.