Long Psychopathy Poems
Long Psychopathy Poems. Below are the most popular long Psychopathy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Psychopathy poems by poem length and keyword.
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The American Heritage Medical Dictionary
defines "Psychopath" in the following category;
"A person with an antisocial personality disorder,
especially one manifested in perverted, criminal or amoral behavior."
*
The following is in response to the above anonymously
from one who displays key symptoms of Psychopathy.
*
Misunderstood
I'm not prone to violence,
but I have no conscience.
I'm aware of happiness, saddness and every emotion,
but I lack the ability to feel any of them.
Every smile and tear I display I always fake.
I study the behaviour of others and assimilate,
but not so much as a conscious deception.
I'm just desperatly attempting to fit in.
My world is one of me surrounded by alians
whose lives are apparently dictated by their emotions.
I cannot make a connection with any of them
and so I live most of my life in isolation.
I have lost my share of so called loved ones
but I never for a moment grieved for any of them.
One cannot grieve when one does not know emotion.
I have an accurate awareness of what is right and wrong
Like so many I strive to be good. I want to belong,
but I'll never know what it feels like to love, cry or laugh,
and I too have been diagnosed a psychopath.
*
He never asked for truth.
Only echoes.
He built a palace from mirrors,
where every face returned his own
with brighter teeth,
louder applause,
and carefully rehearsed devotion.
Around him gathered the faithful—
not believers,
but survivors.
They learned that praise was currency,
that silence was suspicion,
that doubt carried its own sentence.
He called manipulation wisdom,
cruelty discipline,
fear respect.
The room became a theater
where every bow concealed a calculation,
every handshake measured for advantage,
every promise already searching
for its escape.
He mistook obedience for love.
He believed that history
could be bullied into forgetting,
that conscience was only another servant
waiting to be dismissed.
Yet mirrors grow tired.
One by one
they reflected not a sovereign,
but a solitary figure
surrounded by the architecture of flattery—
a kingdom whose walls
were built from borrowed voices.
For sycophants never worship power.
They worship proximity.
And when the throne begins to crack,
their footsteps are the first sound
to disappear into the distance.
Then, at last,
the ruler hears
what had been hidden beneath
a lifetime of applause—
the unbearable silence
of a man
who mistook fear for loyalty,
and manipulation for greatness.
Competence is seldom loud—yet confidence often is.
A charismatic smile may persuade a crowded room that wisdom has arrived,while judgment quietly waits outside.
Psychopathy,hidden beneath a layered mask,borrows the language of empathy without carrying its weight.
Its mirrors reflect only what others long to see.
The victim,neither wholly believed nor wholly forgotten,drifts between the sea and the sky—where truth dissolves into distance,and horizons become courtrooms of uncertainty.
To the practiced eye,the mask is never the face.
Charm is not conscience.
Persuasion is not integrity.
Performance is not compassion.
The sea remembers every foot print washed from its shore.
The sky remembers every silence that no witness heard.
And some where between them,where evidence struggles against illusion,stands the fragile human soul,waiting for perception to surrender to truth.
He was
sick of her.
He was
bored
and
restless.
The tramps
at work
stimulated
his thirst
for new
conquests.
He thought
to himself:
This diabetic
is taking up
so much of
my time.
I'm sick of
her whining.
And the needles
she's poking.
God must
be joking.
So he
thought deeply.
About
ridding himself
of someone
so sweetly.
I must
formulate a plan.
It's my
time to shine.
My needs
must be met.
I don't
have time
for this
sickness.
But I
must operate
ever
so sneakily.
Those
vials
in the frig.
Keep
this sicko
alive.
I must
get free.
I have
better prospects.
And better
games to play.
Then an Aha
moment came.
What if I
replace
her insulin
with
salt water
instead.
She'll go into
a coma
with no
one the wiser
And I can play
The greiving
boyfried
at work
and get
sympathy
sex
from the
vulerable
and down
trodden
then when
I catch one
I can
play this
sick game
all over
again
It's a win
win for me
all over
again
What a
plan
I'll impliment
it tomorrow
and I'll
be free
to be
ME
Psychopathic
AND
Unholy
(This is fiction)
I have seen the polished mask—
how it fits without a seam,
how it gleams in borrowed light
and calls itself a face.
There is no tremor in the voice,
no fracture in the gaze—
only a stillness
where a human storm should live.
He speaks of greatness as of air,
something owed, not earned;
the world, a tilted mirror
forever meant to hold him upright.
And yet—
beneath the architecture of charm,
beneath the fluent, measured grace,
there is no audience but hunger.
No echo answers when he calls
into the hollow of himself.
Others are instruments—
strings to be tightened,
hands to be broken,
notes to be spent and discarded
when silence is more convenient.
Remorse is a language he learned
only to counterfeit.
He knows its grammar,
not its weight.
I have watched him describe ruin
as though recounting weather—
unmoved, precise,
untouched by consequence.
And I, who am trained to listen,
find only absence speaking:
a careful, curated void
dressed in human cadence.
There is no villain here
in the story that he tells—
only a hero without limits,
and a world that fails him daily.
But in the quiet after he leaves,
in the space where truth settles slowly,
I write what he cannot perceive:
A life without others
is not power—
it is an empire
built entirely
of reflective glass.
no halos on these heads
just their undesirable traits.
cold charm —
the smile that sells you peace
while moving the knife
with their eyes closed.
born without fear —
they don’t flinch,
they don’t wake up sweating,
success is never looking back.
instrumental empathy —
they understand feelings
the way a locksmith understands doors.
surgeons their impulsivity —
where risk tastes like oxygen,
consequences are somebody else’s bill.
you meet them at the counter.
corporate executives
talking “efficiency”
to faces they won’t remember.
politicians
shaking hands,
forgetting names,
promising favors like coins.
lawyers
translating pain into strategy,
winning clean,
sleeping fine even after seeing
the most horrific
photographs during the course of
a trial.
police officers
calling it procedure
when innocence people are routinely
shot and self preservation
is the seed of dark lies.
emergency-room surgeons
steady hands, quiet hearts—
you want them that way
until you don’t
consequences are somebody else’s bill.
media hosts and influencers
preying on the endless white trash
manufacturing outrage,
selling certainty,
never bleeding, cherry picking.
the test doesn’t call them evil.
it calls them obtuse and effective.
and the public keeps showing up,
child like trust in hand,
learning to late
what their trust has cost them.
why are they not tested in advance,
saving lives and millions of dollars in advance?
Dear Tony
I'm not your fuel anymore.
Wanting me as someone who will fulfill your needs.
Laundry, cooking, and listening to your glib antics.
Mixed in with verbal degradation to keep me down
and twirling swirling whirling, to keep you happy.
No concern that I have any needs and feelings.
It's all about Tony wrapped into a sadistic package.
Convincing people that I deserve your abuse because
I'm insecure.
Who's the insecure one???
Love is not getting someone else to fulfill Tony's needs.
You were always bored. You always needed excitement.
Women are objects. Using your eyes to fulfill your
sexual deficiency. Using my weaknesses against me.
Projecting your sociopathy on me. And.......You have no
remorse. You can't function in relationships.. . Work, family,
or intimate ones. You will scope out your next victim. A
caring, loving, empathetic, and intelligent woman who
you will feel an insatiable need to destroy. And you will
walk away after you burn her house down. You will be
satisfied once again. Cycling circle cycling circle of
Psychopathy.
Got to go
Not your victim anymore
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