The line between genius and psychopath
Is sometimes fine.
Both have brilliant creative minds
And a disregard for upsetting social norms,
But the genius has something distinct
Which makes their contribution worthwhile
And that is compassion for the humanity
It doesn’t ever quite fit.
(12/29/25)
she still slams doors
like the world owes her rent,
still drinks the bottle
to the bottom,
still laughs at the blood on the floor
like it’s a carnival trick.
I kept thinking—
hell, maybe she’ll soften,
maybe she’ll learn
how to hold a hand
without drawing a knife.
but love doesn’t cure venom,
and I’m no doctor.
I’m just another fool
who tried to tame fire
and ended up burned.
They live like we do and look like we do.
Inside their sometimes quintessential houses
they reside oftentimes with a wife, maybe children.
They work in jobs where we might work.
Some may even be the preacher at a church.
They could be a government official.
What harm could there be in someone with great charm?
Behind the doors of their houses,
(perhaps with those proverbial white picket fences)
they probably show at least the random signs
of who they really are.
It’s likely that someone sees something
that isn’t just quite right,
yet they are adept at manipulation,
and easily, so easily, are people fooled by them.
Meanwhile, they harbor the darkest of fantasies,
and some of them will act
these fantasies out.
Somewhere in this world right now -
somewhere in a big city nearby you,
it’s very likely that a child or young woman
was lured by some sweet words
or perhaps simply and suddenly abducted.
If not beneath the ground,
they might be miserably languishing
in a dingy basement locked up
or even kept inside a box -
fodder for the whims of
the charming psychopath.
In shadows thick, she carves a grin,
No conscience dwells beneath her skin.
She counts the stars like tally marks,
Each one a spark snuffed in the dark.
She mimics tears, rehearses pain,
But empathy runs dry as the rain.
A charming mask, a velvet lie,
With every smile, a soul will die.
She walks through crowds, a ghost, this name,
No guilt, no fear, not even shame.
Her voice is as smooth as vodka's clear,
Yet leaves a taste her tounge can't chase.
The mirror holds no truth to see—
Just vacancy and mimicry.
Her heart, a hollow metronome,
That ticks and tocks in silent chrome.
And death, to her, feels just like home.
her confidence was brittle
as fragile as a lightbulb
her abuser had been an expert
manipulating and destroying
ruining the confidence of a remarkable woman
what joy could there have been in this transformation?
not being a psychopath, we could not relate
Okay no remorse
for chipping a body to bits
but no sadness
no happy
no joy
well unless that was your last victims name
Only love when someone is thrashing you at tennis
Hate to say it but none of that either
No passion to comp
Surely hunger is felt
No fear t-shirts aplenty
Can they feel heat even just their feet
No pride or humility
No want to knead
No sense of worth
No hop to hope
The nothing felt
from slap to belt
Never alone
even when they are
No wonder no awe
Today the same as tomorrow
Emotion has no place in the operating room, emotion cost lives.
Every time emotion comes into play, patients needlessly die.
In the operating room I am an emotionless machine.
I have a success rate that no neurosurgeon has ever seen,
and when I return home, I continue to be,
this total void of emotion human being.
I am a functioning psychopath,
pushed by my environment towards a direction of a positive path.
worn out
worn down
just plain worn
is there a bit of sass left
or self-preservation?
She does not care anymore.
I am a psychopath
a derange
a fruitcake
she looked at me as if I am looney tunes, a
nutter, madwoman, maniac, nutcase, nut.
I stuck out my tongue, causing her to flee
the man in the elevator asked me
where would she go?
We three have been stuck in here for hours
she made me sandwiches and cooked my t
she washed my clothes and kept me clean
but she never showed me any empathy
and that's how love comes across mean
my emotional needs were left to starve
she cooked and she cleaned and she did so with heart
she made sure that belt slapped my skin really hard
choosing the punishment designed to be harsh
success I achieved was quickly destroyed
diverting to things that I couldn't do well
If I celebrated she's quickly annoyed
changing the subject from a win to a fail
I gave up on trying to win her approval
she turned positives into negative lessons
teaching me my achievements were not useful
the things I can't do make better impressions
she doesn't respect me or ask my opinion
information that she gets from elsewhere
she makes it impossible to have a connection
I'm just a possession so why would she care
she's always the victim pointing out blame
gaslighting her children for attention again
before they both died her parents caused pain
traits of a psychopath not someone insane
Telling that gotesque humanid shape ( i know it was humanoid but i love the sound of humanid)
concaved on the lid of the toilet bin
tapered on the rim
I hate you
then i realised i'm not him
trapped within
Jokered grin
death can't surprise me
cause i don't care
ready anywhere
life was a chore i skipped
when no one watches
danced beneath the undressed trees
cried for crying sake
given what i took
taking the edges of the universe
and ripping it a partly invisible in daylight
Moulded by the contours of the seas of the moon
Licked by every wind
Spoke to
Sooner
Couldn't care to be angry
just a bare pool table
no felt no feel
Psychopath by choice
was was that an echo
or you reading my voice
spun a ruler on my head
pretend to be a helicopter
i'm not even going to finish this senten
ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt tttttttttttttttttttttttttt
that whole line i couldn't be bothered lifting my finger
sometimes i let the television watch me
can i borrow the sky tomorrow
bathe in oils of sorrow
wish i could see for the everywhere
groaning out the end
I'm rusty these days
I see you are, too
With your game
They caught you
Again
And you're going in
Again, for some time
How can I put
Everything I've just seen
Into a poem, into a rhyme?
My poems about you used to be so
Prolific, full of everything that never really was
Because I believed
You
Could
Change
Well
Hell
Right? Hell broke loose for you
When I realized I'd been fooled
Now, look at you --
A fool shackled, chained
Ready for big boy prison now, I hope -
Maximum security this time.
I pray you'll be
Okay.
I pray you'll be okay.
You ruined many parts of me, but
My heart is still here. Isn't that crazy?
You amaze me. 47 and still acting
Like you're 18. You amaze me
Not. At all.
Not to diss you, but
We don't miss you.
But, I'm rusty these days
With what I say
And I mean it when I say
I pray you'll be okay.
Took me too long to realize
To see with real eyes
Just how far down deep
In your heart the deceit lies
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