the gifts ere obsessive
her new beau was possessive
her relatives were terrified
offered her a place to hide
she said he will never hurt me
They have not seen her since ‘93
Yes ! I’m really obsessive
rather, also too possessive ,
mostly acting impulsive—
brain being too much sensitive
and mind becoming just hollow .
My sweet heart is my obsession
I can't control my emotion
igniting always my passion.
I'm always in tension ,
when my mind may outburst and blow.
A psychological defect !
Even simply can't tolerate
to see a male associate
or normal male friend to accept :
Tough mental state of Othello
At last appeared that event
leaving me only to lament.
I murdered her and will repent -
as I found, she was innocent.
Me ! A Mischievous fellow !
my dogs are obsessive compulsive
they compartmentalize their activities
If they get a chicken stick
they run to their gray mattresses to chew it
they have established their own routines
one always leaves the last bite of food for his brother
one will not come into the front door unless my husband stands there
no amount of coaxing, begging, crying or pleading can change his mind
opinionated? certainly
regimented? definitely
self-absorbed? Absolutely
my dogs are obsessive compulsive
A hoarse whisper, at 2.49 a.m.
"It's over-it's over- it's-"
There, he is,
in his dark bedroom,
eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.
Fists clenched with sheets, and nails sunk to the skin.
He mutters it, to the locked bedroom door,
as if it's someone who's listening
to his confession, sorrow.
2.50 it is.
A tear, dull and frozen,
falls from his left eye,
just to land on his shaking upper lip.
"It's over- it's over- it's-"
his hair, wet with sweat,
voice rasp with dread,
with a broken throat and a heart,
he mutters the same,
again and again,
in same pain,
same tone,
to the same silent wall.
His over bitten lip,
now glistening in red.
Iron and salt,
mixed in pain.
He feels it.
He cries, finally....
There, 2.55, sleep is crawling,
not a fitful one, shaking, he falls asleep.
3.00 a.m. it is.
DANG!-the alarm..
He wakes up, again.
Just to begin another day of hiding the suffering,
and suffering from hiding.
The longing want to hold you,
to kiss you,
to keep you.
I need you in my life,
forever will I need you.
I’m jealous of the sun,
as it gets to kiss you in the ways,
I always wish to kiss you.
I’m jealous of your sheets,
as they get to lay on you and warm you up,
in the way I wish to do that exact thing.
I never want to lose you,
I’ll be miserable if I do.
You don’t want me.
I’m broken and bruised
I’m a web of ugly scars from my healing
I’m a fraud
I’m a jittery, anxious idiot who can’t stop thinking
I’m the friend that always dampens the mood
I’m a product of my racing heart and mind colliding
I’m someone who feels such heaviness but can’t cry
I spend every second trying to please others
I put on a show with a smile
Then give up and run away
I collapse at any small problem
My heart sinks if my mother can’t find her wallet
I lose my breath when the recycling won’t fit in the can
I’m so Obsessive that it’s impossible to hide it
So I shrug it off
Make it something else
Try to become the person others need
The good friend.
I give everything just to be chosen.
And I try desperately to hide most of myself
Because if you really saw me,
You wouldn’t want me.
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
www.daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
writing should not become obsessive ~ but should always be expressive
I will always hate the colour orange. Consider:
Last meeting was on promoting sales of necklaces,
The folder given was orange.
Going home was a one-lane affair,
An orange sign stated, “Works Ahead”.
Orange traffic cones lined the lane on each side.
Arriving home I found my wife had installed orange curtains.
By this time I began to have some shivers.
Dinner began: orange pumpkin soup with orange buffalo wings.
“Come dear have some orange juice laced with orange vitamin pills.”
Opening TV and orange Garfield appeared.
Even the Cheetos and Utz Cheese Balls were orange.
Turning to a book what do I get?
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess.
That’s when I began to really hate the colour
For even the goldfish had the same colour.
“Is it possible in this world it’s all orange?”
My wife thought about that and said:
“Oh no my dear, there’s salmon, carrot, coral, titian….”
Disgusted I left the house towards a verdant park.
Check door, handle, lock. Check them twice.
Life with O.C.D. - that's the price.
Do the same each and every day;
"Unlocked!" the inner voices say.
Holding you hostage in a vice.
I saw peacock feathers stuck in fences when I was a child.
The farm next to my grandparents raised peacocks.
They were the prettiest colors of purple and gold.
I wanted to run over there and grab some up.
My mother thought it would be rude, so we didn’t.
My grandparents used to go to Mexico every year.
They brought back tiny paintings with black backgrounds.
There were peacocks made from red, blue and yellow feathers.
They were pretty, but did not compare to the real deal.
The real peacocks made the meanest noises.
I was much older when I realized all the colorful ones are male.
The female is plain brown, so she can easily hide with eggs.
How ridiculous! I thought. All of those beauties are males!
How sad for the females. But God has a plan I am sure.
It would not have been my plan, but it seems to work.
I have a fascination for peacocks that borders on ridiculous.
I have peacock curtains, peacock pillows, and I paint peacocks.
Maybe if my mother had let us collect some of those feathers
I could have been normal, but I am obsessive about them.
I adore everything about them – the colorful ones.
Keep on walking straight,
don't turn back and show
that obsessive look of fake passion;
nobody can own me for the wildest night
and have fun while I think
of that sweet and true woman
who has conquered me long ago;
nothing can impress me, not even a wink!
That obsessive look of fake passion
can only show a bad intention,
I may flirt, but that's as far as I go;
possessing me is not loving me,
I caught the licking of lips, but know
that my sweetness is only offered
to the one, I allow to kiss me...
can this obsession be tolerated?
Keep on walking straight,
make believe I'm invisible
and not really interested in anything;
don't whisper words that are deceiving
I'm faithful and unconquerable...
the one I love owns all I got.
I keep away from women who try
to control me, I'm not a puppet;
you can pull the strings all you want,
I remain completely unaffected by
the crazy effort you put into it...
assuming I can be controlled, but
that obsessive look of fake passion
makes you laugh at your own lie.
It is crazy to be this compulsive about so many things.
I draw out three or four cartoons a week that I paint.
It may take me another week, but I work on four at once.
My daily poem quota is ten, but I sometimes write thirty.
Okay. I lie. I once wrote thirty in one day.
Out of three years, this only happened once.
When I am done, I am done.
When it is over, it is over.
I thought poetry would be over by now.
It has been a three year obsession.
It is nowhere near over.
I thought painting would be over by now.
I have over five hundred paintings.
Two hundred on the walls, three hundred stacked in piles.
Cartooning will never be over.
I have been drawing cartoons since I was four years old.
It is my go-to, do this and you can shut out the world hobby.
I am about to attack four new canvases.
My cartoonish mind is ready.
I love cartooning the best.
A sixty-four year obsession….
I generally mean mine mien mental state
moost occasions heavily marinated stupor
long established as external trait
psychologically time tested trooper
impossible mission to kickstart sanity
doppelgänger regularly revisits his soul asylum
hellbent antimatter he cannot vitiate
despite therapeutic laxative merely exhausts
well bred literate smoking doobie brother
eliminating aforementioned pablum
witnessed courtesy one floundering grouper
among plenty of fish schooled
hyphenated (high finned haggled)
burn hushed scaled poem
courtesy one unionised rebellious party pooper.
Spellbound with colossal mental grippe
(i.e. all-consuming figurative cerebral
obsessive compulsive forced membership)
magnetic resonance imagine indicated jagged blip
and/or nsync microscopy
showed telltale genetic authorship
regarding above stated mental health crisis,
whereby Sigmund Freud analyst did flip
lid freeing leeches imported courtesy Philip
Hansel and Gretel a mere slip
o' lass whose nose she always did turnip.
I am an obsessive learner, which drives me
frantically and in a frenzied way
and often
Cartooning is something I cannot stop doing
Painting is fairly new for me
I started with my first canvas five years ago.
My living room holds eighty canvases, all painted by me.
I love neon paints, so I have black lights in
three rooms, which are covered with wall to wall
paintings all done by me.
Poetry is something I thought I would try about three
years ago. I have written over nine thousand poems in
that time, and published them online on two poetry sites.
I am an obsessive learner. Driven in frenzied, until I am done.
When I am done, I am done.
Not another cartoon, poem or painting.
No idea why.
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