Long Psychotropic Poems
Long Psychotropic Poems. Below are the most popular long Psychotropic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Psychotropic poems by poem length and keyword.
What can a bewildered brotha’ say,
it happens every unnatural day
Sunshine is labeled as shade,
crystal clear is called opaque fade
Did I make a left turn
into the wrong dimension?
Now I’m seeing curvaceous things
that Nana never mentioned
Me rearview mirror eyes are
side-swipe swivel swerve widening
Was there a hot-iron cool downgrade,
firebrand placed
on my Ocho Rios dreadlock upbraids?
Puff kings are turning into drag queens ...
strange flesh doings,
I-and-I now be-be first-hand witnessing
Boys are turning into girls,
and those goatee girlz are turning into scrotum women
Lord knows,
I feel like I’m living in
Sodom and Gomorrah again
Girls are turning into boys,
and those bosom boyz are turning into vulva men
Now, I’m not for sight sure,
just what glassy gaze starry eyes blurry,
rest beyond the dress curtain
Surprises a-plenty are in store,
when it’s uncertain
what’s behind the gender door
Don’t wanna make the wrong turn,
and roll into the surreal fifth dimension
Twilight Zone neon strip is on burn,
whatcha’ see
might require psychiatric intervention
Girls are turning into boys,
and those boyz are turning into Venus men
Lord knows,
I feel like I’m Sin City living in
ancient Egypt Greece again
Boys are turning into girls,
and those girlz are turning into Mars women
Puff kings are turning into drag queens ...
strange flesh doings
It’s an open-closet psychotropic skin scene
Another brother daisy duke
exhale exigent cross-dress pollination
Pubic bramble bush adolescent tumble,
take a different genitalia turn from
a same sister butch duchess
Boys are turning into girls,
and those girlz
are turning into testosterone women
Lord knows,
I feel like I’m Zion living in
Babylon Rome again
Girls are turning into boys,
and those boyz
are turning into estrogen ova men
Momma drag queens
are the former Daddy puff kings
Nothing on the surface is
quite biological what it seems
Id feelings of a sorrowful kind,
have me heart sprout creeping ivy
of eunuch tear yearning
for a Garden of Eden spiritual awakening
And impotent thoughts of mine
are starting to grow
down below, in-between
Is there a doctor in the house?
A cryptic message from the uniting nations,
looking for yet another credentialed ecotherapist
to surgically remove all our economic and political issues.
Those remaining after overdosing on pharmaceuticals
as media marketed
through normal incorporated competitions
for egocentric profit
channels and parties and outlets
fed by oil-fired over-heating ballistic powers.
Unfortunately, this local ecotherapeutic facilitator and mentor guild
is out of rabid pathologists.
They are all currently mad with medicines
of and for climate illnesses,
building sand bag towers
across drowning coastal cities
the oceans are reclaiming as their own,
in their perennial rage against the continents
of usurpation.
Predators, with power-over monocultural intent,
this tidal tug of war between productive lands and all-consuming seas.
But doctors are best for reacting
to already raging and suffered madness,
badness,
while our ecotherapeutic nurses
are nurturing specialists,
responsible for co-mentoring regenerative public health,
supporting cooperative natural healing laws and organic orders,
composting richer climates within dysfunctional families
as post-graduate clinical trials
before they take on facilitating public-sector governing,
multicultural garden uncovering,
helpful-healthy community beloving
our uniting nations' polypathically extending families.
For proactively regenerating healthy societies
this ecotherapeutic guild recommends
our co-empathic cooperative trust mentors,
nurturing Good Holistic Sciences and Arts of healing medicines.
Where surgeons and psychotropic dispensing political doctors
react against predative paranoid economic nightmares,
our health-nurturing nurses bring deep-resonantly fired experience
returning pathological ecopolitical dark night scares
into rememories of multicultural Paradise Dreams
singing and dancing through EarthTribe childhoods.
Why seek yet another burnt-out surgical WinLose pathologist
when we have so many healthy WinWin eco-nutritional mentors?
Trees creating good from bad atmospheres
and pollinators regenerating depleted ecopolitical soils
and barren, former ecologically healthy, souls.
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
I can no longer hear the voices,
so now I'm not sure what to say.
I've come to the conclusion
that they would know a better way to tell this story.
At least if I could hear their opinions or suggestions,
that would help me to get a definite idea in what order this should be said.
They might of even told me when to add something important,
and leave out the unneeded information.
After all, I've known them for so long, and had their help this far,
I'm not exactly good at these types of things anymore.
Many things have happened, but I don't know where to start,
let alone the fact that my mind tricks me into seeing what isn't there,
and for once they aren't here to warn me.
It's like one moment my memories are engraved in stone,
to the next moment they are being washed away by the ocean tide,
taking the restless sand out to sea.
Thats the big problem with being labeled, crazy;
you're never sure about the things you see.
I could start by telling you,
it ended in death but to that effect, it also started in death.
So, I'm not exactly sure of what to say.
Maybe, just maybe I could try to remember something before I went utterly mad.
All I know in this moment is that some people died,
and I'm lucky enough not to be one of them.
The voices told me so,
that was the last thing they said nefore they left me alone.
instead of their whispers,
all I have now is the medications that are beign shoved down my throat daily.
The oval egg-shell blue pill, or my psychotropic pill sickens me.
Followed by me swollowing the pill,
my mouth becomes dry until I'm practily weezing and gasping for air,
as I bang my fists against my own chest so I can breathe.
This pill is like an elevator that can only stay
in one place for so long but cannot go up.
The doctors keep saying no matter how happy I feel,
it's just a facade, a hoax, a joke,
for the real emotion is lying in wait for the right moment to pounce and release my
hell bound anger,
or so they tell me
Form:
On the corner of Short con and Long play
sits the neighborhood ponies man
in his pickup van,
waiting to take parlay list deliveries
Feeling leisurely ... not wanting to bounce
on a Cadillac roll,
Trickbaby is out on a stroll
He's looking for a grifter tip
on a hot streak filly,
who runs fast spurred by a mean buggy whip
He takes his numbered ticket buy,
puts it in his lucky left side pocket,
as he holds a rolled, sacred racing form scroll
in his superstitious, money-itching right hand
Trickbaby continues on his daily walk
heading to the hoop chain ballers park
Once there, he takes a spectator bench asphalt view,
and watch some opening moves
of the ghetto grandmaster’s playing
on their custom made chessboards
Long retired from the rat-race corporate game,
Trickbaby got laid back, lounging angles
and always charismatic, well-rehearsed dangles
He observes the walking nylon nets
concrete flash bait some guppy fishes,
and he rises to go where he knows
some quick currency streams are gon flow
Trickbaby captain finger signs the seedy hotel scout door man,
who in turn gives him the proper respect nod of his soldier head
Trickbaby is dressed in his natty, blue-grey pork pie hat,
neon black, sharkskin zoot suit
And patent leather penguin spats —
proper old-school playa shoes
He greets the tall, exotic Illustrated woman at the door,
who extends her psychotropic inked hand
and pierced diamond-studded tongue
Receiving the news of the working crews,
Trickbaby goes up to his penthouse room to rest
for another night rendezvous,
at the corner of Long con and Short play
King Gotham bat gon meet some joker night crawlers;
crack open some new grifter plans,
and watch those wannabe trickbabies get the dreamy eyes ...
Seeing visions of tropical beach sands
Trickbaby true knows that a fake trickbaby
only gon start to ghetto grow up one day,
when you take their milk bottle money away
‘Madness kills Insanity’
Melancholy daggers had struck him down again
Compressed a fragile state of festering fragments
Left behind on slow incisions ready for the kill
A crazy old man on death row of split darkness
Stripped to the core on peripheries of bedlam
Sadness wrapped in a straight-jacket of inactivity
A shackled mind waiting for post mortem revelations
One more confrontation with ultimate oblivion
Void and temptation a distant memory of the future
On the stretcher of trivial agony he had forgotten
How Phoenix had risen from sack cloth and soot
Had blown ashes to the wind of change and beauty
They had to pin him onto bedsores and purulence
Injected psychotropic poison for his mind to heal
Convulsed him and surprisingly the catatonia lifted
He woke up in a trance of muddled inspiration
Wrote convoluted messages to Self and freedom
Reflected on what caused his pain and dire thoughts
Wiped off the bloody blade and penned a short obituary
Opted for a different course and retreat from pandemonium
Bid farewell to lunacy and retrieved light and reason
His curse resembled the double-edged sword of passion
Swinging from a short-lived pivot on the hook of treason
And yet he would not want to miss his spell-bound destiny
Depression gave him insight and bleeding resurrection
Ignited him once more and made him realise that of dose
Of enforced insanity was necessary to cure the madness
17th July 2019
Writing Challenge 2, July 2019- Melancholy- Poetry Contest
Sponsor Dear Heart
Late spring
and the opening gasps
of summer’s blazing promise
bring whirling dark clouds,
horizontal rain,
fierce weather,
warning horns,
my blackness,
horizontality,
downright mean melancholy,
and warning signs
worthy of attention.
I much prefer lazy storms
that I can listen to
at night in bed
after I’ve closed my book
(a defense mechanism
so that the day doesn’t end
and I’ll not have to live today
again tomorrow).
It’s neutral in that dark dark,
my ears fine-tuning my mood,
thunder a tympanic counterpoint
to the forgetting I know is coming
with the assistance of
my nightly psychotropic,
without which I don’t sleep,
without which I
descend into despair.
My familiar,
outside of me,
sits patiently
in the chair across the room,
legs crossed casually,
cigarette dangling from
the first two fingers of his left hand,
waiting for dawn,
knowing that the overcast
will return tomorrow,
and I’m his again.
During these shadowy times
my dreams are the old ones
of failure and inadequacy
of such intensity
that I force myself awake
to make them stop,
my pounding heart
and short shallow breaths
lingering.
Oddly though,
bright days don’t always bring
an equivalent measure
of pleasant dreams,
say, pastures of flowers,
faces I love,
chocolate,
tints of sweet colors.
Instead there is nothing,
and I wake knowing only that
while I slept
no psychic comedy played for me,
no balance or compensation offered
for the drama of gray day theater.
Splinters and Beams
Stream of consciousness gleams under stark cover
Agents of psychotropic delusion blur and distort
White dust perforating a septum’s divide
Snuffed cuffed to addiction and stuffed
‘You are your downfall as you trip on your ride’
Little pinpricks endorsing a festering skin
Blisters of sinister conscience molested
‘Told you so that heroin sucks into abuse’
Meth crystals inhaled from a broken light bulb
Reignited beaming gleaming from splinters
‘Serves you right you are the scum of the earth’
Magic fungus mushrooming the doomed mind
From a domed cap on a stalk deluding insight
‘You deserve no better procured your decline’
Mary Jane weeding abysmal sativa salivating
with pleasure bleeding a buzz stoned for the thrill
‘All that hippie stuff why don’t you get real’
Flawed dust - broken needle - splintered neon -
Mouldy ingestion – disjointed joint - slushed drink
I never chased the dragon but fell of the wagon
Quite often imbibed left my shame bashed trashed
Befuddled and resolved against judgement when I now
Tend to sweep my side of the street sober and clean
Your splinter is your chip your own fragmentation
My beam is my joist my scaffold and my crossbar to level
15th April 2018
Psychiatrists have us believing in
the myth of psychotropic medicine.
Chemical potions to free mankind
from the prisons of tortured minds.
But the drugs they deal can cause so much harm
voices are crying out in alarm.
You can’t hide the damage you do
it’s “manna for madness” that you brew.
We are victims that you have tossed
into a chemical holocaust.
In the name of help you gain our trust
then use your drugs to imprison us.
Substances that are in those pills
make our minds and bodies ill.
You can’t hide the damage you do
it’s “manna for madness” that you brew.
Just look around and you can tell
the people you treat don’t get well.
Patients dumped on streets everywhere
mumble madly through vacant stares.
All they can do is babble on
their power to reason completely gone.
You can’t hide the damage you do
it’s “manna for madness” that you brew.
You attack our bodies, our souls and minds
with chemical potions of every kind.
They fog the brain within our skull
to cloud our thoughts and keep us dull.
You haze our minds so we can’t see
the harm you do to humanity.
You can’t hide the damage you do
it’s “manna for madness” that you brew.
A BAND AND A DANCER SO GRAND
“Shall we dance?” the lady asked ever so politely
And oh how the lady danced ever so lightly
It was as if she \hovered an inch above the floor
And I never enjoyed dancing with a partner more
I begged the band to belabor the point
For it was the music the woman would anoint
She baptized the band as sanctified oil
And to the lady my soul became loyal
She took to the tile, a temptress, my muse
And when she asked for more no man could refuse
The brass played with class and the flute wasn’t mute
And her elegance was a fact God Himself could not refute
Mine eyes beheld the majestic majesty of grace
And simply holding her caused my heart to race
She dance me into a dream of loveliness and lace
Whilst the band grew jealous of what was in my embrace
Her gracefulness begot beauty and grandeur so bright
While the vocalist sang a song about undying delight
But then I heard four words that dimmed every light
When the M.C. announced the final dance of the night
DOES THIS MAKE ANYONE BESIDES ME WANT TO PUKE?
© 2011.…..Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
all resonses are handed to me by the nurse along with my psychotropic drugs, thanks!