From the beginning, I came with my fists held tight
When I exited my mother's womb, I screamed and readied myself for a fierce fight
A fight I didn't understand at the time...
Way before the development of my prefrontal cortex and mind
But something peculiar sat in my spirit...
Coyly poking and nudging me to be intuit
And into it I was
But over time I started to lose my buzz
As I grew, no longer was I mirthfully floatin' and stingin'
Still, I was in the ring, and the fight they kept bringin'...
Fighting for a seat at the table___
After I was released from Dad's steel hands and Mama's nurturing ladle
Fighting for my voice to be heard in a world with stuffed ears
Fighting, just fighting to abolish my creeping fears
Fighting for my sweet, sweet dreams...
With my clenched hands, I still hold them, but so far away they seem
Fighting, fighting to experience peace and joy in the golden light
But soon--oh, too soon-- the fists become less tight
No one can see it, but I’m poisoned.
Every morning, I take my meds,
and as the pills travel down my throat,
I wonder if this is the only antidote.
When I sit alone in my bed,
pondering my own crippling thoughts,
the poison makes me ill.
Will I ever get this out of my system? I ask.
It lingers through my body—
from my head, deep in my brain,
to my stomach, where I get nauseous
at the thought of my own mental toxins.
Although I didn’t consume something deadly to make me sick,
the poison in my prefrontal cortex
might just be the death of me.
When I walk into a room, no one sees
that every step I take is intense pain.
For now, I’ll go to sleep with this poison
eating at my life
and hope that it doesn’t kill me.
I’m poisoned mentally,
but not physically.
There is a monster in my bed and I let him in. I supplied the pillow to rest. His quiet wickedness I don't address. As he fondles my body while I lay still undressed. I don’t reciprocate his love or affection and he won’t allow me to stop it or reject it. That must be his thrill. Just begging for me to pet it. Like a dog. I like dogs. They don’t force me to love them. They just are. He has a darkness beneath the face, beyond the freckles and scars. He stays inside until he thinks you bought the bit that he is a chivalrous guy, but he has secrets to hide. As sweet and willing as he seems he is holding two sharp blades to your carotid artery. In plain sight but you choose not to see. You let the darkness in because a part of you believes you too are a dark fruit fallen from the forbidden tree. Another lying message you allowed your brain to receive. You are more than an object of affection, you are deserving. Sometimes we have to burn it all down to start anew. A cleansing of the medial prefrontal cortex erasing desires previously initiated for a few as I currently have a monster in my bed and I am the one who invited him in.
prefrontal cortex
"thinking brain" - the unconscious
can become conscious
The man wondered, "What is hope?"
Metacognition defined, it's nothing but a dope.
The heart objected to the proposition.
And told it's an ambiguous anticipation.
The prefrontal cortex made the reasoning disentwine.
And equated hope with the level of dopamine.
The enterochromaffin cells rejected the cortical rationality.
And signified serotonin's vitality.
Posterior pituitary smiled sarcastically.
And illustrated oxytocin's role affectionately.
The man woke up out of this exasperation.
Though dream, but intrigued by the imagination.
He asked," Is hope just a chemical state?"
Consciousness whispered it's not that straight.
Sitting on the Field
Lights come up on stage
All we have is time
I don’t mind the wait
I looked at you
And you looked at me
I do know why
I found you
I wonder how
You found me too
So baby don’t tell me
Just give me your hand please
And let’s watch the show, Ma
And please understand me
The chronic we blazing
Straight to our prefrontal cortex its racing
Now all my thoughts are spacing
All I see is you
Bracketed time eclipses the scene
Upon a river of notes
My love like a beam
Please pinch me, my dear
I hope this is no dream
Days arrive days go
January snow
Words shine
In dopamine and oxytocin
In black and white
In figures of delight
Also in colors
In milk and in liquors
The sensor in the prefrontal cortex
Is in a centripetal vortex
Sensitive to the letters
Holds the birds
The imagination tinkers
With their genetic make up
The bird of a tree
Is now in great glee
A bird in a pocket
Flirting with a locket
Poetry in the vicinity
Ephemeral days pulsate
For some moments
Into infinity
Making one psychiatric
For the love of Poetry
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April 6, 2016
FOR THE LOVE OF POETRY- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by : John lawless
In mind's castle many furnished rooms
In upper chamber, chaste virtue grooms
In lower chamber, strands of civility bloom
In antechamber, auxiliary dreams, visions illume
In the inner chamber, fears, insecurities subsume
In dim, adjoining corridors, venal guile do entomb
From bed chamber, hypothalamus, carnal libations spoon
In library, Prefrontal cortex, sentient patterns resume
In nursery, hippocampus, Id suckles the womb
In hearth's cozy fireplace, nurtured Ego swoons
From dusky, dank cellar, hidden desires fume
In dungeon's dark recesses resides a foreboding gloom
In courtyard, amygdala, aesthetic designs mushroom
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