I wrote this and have not edited it. I have not posted much even though I have hundreds of poems unpublished here. I suppose you could say that I've been busy but I guess it's more unwell. I liked this poem even though it's all out of whack. Anyway, let me know what you think if you decide to read it.
I Am the People Simulator
Emulating humanity and fooling myself to sanity,
Thinking I was a sympathetic soul when I'm
Phrenetic, just soiled, roiled up, empathetic—
Like some sympathy sickness, all fidgety
Waiting for the other shoe to wear
But when I'm clad, in your clothes, I’m glad—
Even if you are sad there is sense in your
Sense such that I will drink in like a potion,
A concoction of antitoxin, my blood breathes
In your veins as I take the reigns—you
Sustain me and I can't help but drain the
Meaning, the dreaming, from your mind, kind
Of theming my thoughts into little snapshots:
Purpose, joy, love, hatred, until I have an inflated
Sense of you, a cognitive dissonance of
Undeniable resonance, a personal irrelevance
That is justified evidence that I am not who I should be—
But when I am you, and I've stolen your view,
Your valor, and your value, this I shall use
As the basis of my baseless homeostasis—
A sad sack of flesh fleshing you out,
Empathetic, sympathy sick, sucking out
The blood until I flood my veins with you,
Until I am drunk and you are dead or have shrunk
Back from yourself and lack the legitimacy of
Emotional intimacy because it belongs to both of
Us, the whole of us, the goal of us—you and me—
Will be completely one because I will have already won,
No longer sick and mixed up but fixed up—fixed on you.
Tag: ocd
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Verse Poem 24
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Verse Poem 21
I’m breaking sequence again but I had this sort revelation of perception recently. I’ve known this is true for sometime but something just sort of clicked during this conversation about the many perceptions of life and how different it can be with versus without mental illness. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem if you decide to read it.
Good News!
Have you been informed that not everyone
Cries for 4 hours at a time, that it is somewhat atypical
To be paralyzed in the prone position for 13 hours,
To fall asleep, spend another 14 hours fetally, feebly,
And weepily grinding your soul to its core through
Death threats (as suicidal ideation and idealization),
To feel the affirmation of guilt that all you’ve built, loved, and
Been loved by will cry, if you were to die, so you don’t die,
But hope that’s somehow a lie and stay lying down until
You go to work on Monday and smile and laugh,
Love and desire, feel empathy, and aspire, all while
You conspire to hide how desperately depressed you are--
That it’s actually not normal to not accept sympathy because you
Seem a symphony of perfection and production, not self-
Destruction, but a modicum of a man, coworker, boss, friend,
Yet feel a fiend and later scream out your self-esteem until
Your throat is numb, driving and barely deciding not to hear
The call of the void chiding you, confiding in you, dividing you,
Yet you take the exit not the tree at 124 mph knowing that
The same sweat-soaked, yellowed sheet and mattress
Will be the same ones you cry yourself to sleep in
Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, forever--
Did you know that not everyone does that?
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Verse Poem 15
Hello all,
I took a break from serious poetry and wrote something silly about my cyclical thoughts and I named it something interesting-sounding for effect. I hope it worked. Anyway, I had fun with this but later this week, because I am off all week, I will post another poem, this time a PROSE POEM–my favorite–and I hope you all will enjoy it as well; it’s a topic that’s from maybe a new angle to you all but has been on my mind for a while. Anyway, let me know what you think about this poem, if you decide to read it.
Ouroboros
I’m obsessively and compulsively disorderly
And that’s ordinarily--my sanity is scarily
Thin, my fragile cranium is carpe diem
In the worst way because I am my own prey,
Premeditating the act of not medicating because
I am investigating if it’ll really make me more
Creative, or innovative, something that is
Native and natural, but to be factual,
I’m now regretting obviously forgetting that
My mind is mined by the grind of scripts, fits,
Poetry bits--my mind reminds me I’m unnatural:
My scripts are irrational, my levels of panic are
Impractical and I can’t take a sabbatical,
Even from writing because that’s inviting
Intrusive interests intent on my destruction--
Often accompanied by specific instruction
To dismantle the ego, ergo that’s the vertigo
I feel, writing this.
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Verse Poem 3
Hello all,
I took a 1-week hiatus because my OCD got the better of me. Here is a poem that I think is flawed. I am uploading this poem in direct opposition to the OCD that won the battle from last week. We will see who will win the war. Let me know what you think, if you decide to read it.
All the best,
JCO
Anxious Enthrallment
I am a thrall to my own fall,
Echoes of an internal ghetto
Spoken in falsetto and false too
Are bounding the walls, confounding
My weary self into a dreary day dream
Destined for destruction without abruption;
Like these circular lines and ineffectual rhymes,
I resign to the flow, unable to sew sanity
From faux vanity, until my own humanity
Is absorbed in disgruntled profanity
And the inanity of my life;
The repetition of this cognition
Kills me, especially because, unpoetically,
This admission is unworthy of submission—
Lame lines lacking all time and metered rhyme,
And my poor mind is so unkind it won’t unwind;
These pathetic poetics keep these frenetic
Thoughts domestic, echoed in my own ghetto.
Jogging the Mind 