The Neurotic Psychopath Poets

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Sticky

 

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Obsessions is poetry, and claustrophobia are the letters that are obsessive-compulsive to the outline of the words that come together to format a meaning; I’m a neurotic poet?

Neurotic is defined as a person suffering from neurosis; for example:

mental case, psychoneurotic

claustrophobe – a person suffering from claustrophobia

hysteric – a person suffering from hysteria

obsessive – a person who has obsessions

obsessive-compulsive – a person with obsessive-compulsive characteristics

psychopath, sociopath – someone with a sociopathic personality; a person with an antisocial personality disorder (`psychopath’ was once widely used but has now been superseded by `sociopath’)

diseased person, sick person, sufferer – a person suffering from an illness

(http://www.thefreedictionary.com/neurotic)

Although, I have none of the above^^^^ symptoms of this psychological illness…. I can’t help to wonder why so many poets who suffered from it, was by all means the most beautiful poets.

Here are a few, to mention:

Sylvia Plath

(1932 – 1963)

 “If neurotic wants two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days. ”

Read more: http://www.neuroticpoets.com/plath/

 Dylan Marlais Thomas

(1914 – 1953)

 “Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn’t do to upset one’s own vanity.

Read more: http://neuroticpoets.com/thomas/

Oscar Wilde

(1854 – 1900

“I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”

Read more: http://www.neuroticpoets.com/wilde/

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

(1830 – 1886)

“If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves. You can gain more control over your life by paying closer attention to the little things.”

Read more: http://www.neuroticpoets.com/dickinson/

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

(1828 – 1882)

“I have been here before. / But when or how I cannot tell: / I know the grass beyond the door, / The sweet keen smell, / The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.”

Read more:  http://www.neuroticpoets.com/rossetti/

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
Sylvia Plath

Bruised

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Feet bruised in sandals complimented with a reddish tone, skin damaged with a spirit big as stone, determined to become a thief of the character, while wearing a tunic that was woven in one piece, without a seam…

So it seems to be a painting of a war piece, backed by an infantry of prophesy to battle hate, and demolish hypocrisy, that was the philosophy no need for Socrates…

So you see… it was he who split the sea, his beliefs spit on by those that disagreed, although his intentions were low and meek, now on bended knee, the emotional teaching broke waves like an ocean, injecting a poison in the form of lecture, that spoke of the raptures people begin to take heed overwhelmed with grief, dancing with sin which introduced by his friend drunkenness; which feel in love with foolishness, in which gave no meaning to the term, soberness…

Now he has control of this, loose bowels, take a piss to release the non-sense, forgive my language knowing this is the end, I’m over this plant like earth; I could end it all right now with a slit wrist bleeding melody of pain on the piano keys the choir slowly plays a violin, when approached by a spirit that told me his feet were bruised in sandals complimented with a reddish tone, skin damaged with a spirit big as stone, who was determined to rob my character…

So you see… he recruited me with in his infantry to fulfill prophesy against hate and to demolish hypocrisy and in return he touches me in the most unconditional way, and redirects my life, I would say…

Converted with in belief I stared into his passion of Christ introduced has the Son of God, who came from the womb of Mary, whom hanged from the cross nailed, and buried within a rock of stone…  Jesus Christ!

Homeless

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You tell me that love has no home in your heart, because it tore your decorated walls of trust apart.

Distorted your beautiful flowers that you planted with passion, while the soil overflow with tears.

The fabric that you also call your skin has been unstitched, bruised and color fading.

Pieces of glass lie scattered on the carpet from the broken window, that has now distorted your view to see clear.

The pantry that once had food for your soul is empty with residue of pessimistic that the pest feed on.

The bathroom mirror shows a reflection of a person that resembles you; animation of a princess, but when the sun sets you’ve fallen in love with Shrek and your new name is Fiona, unattractive and love is the blame.

You tell me you could care less of love being homeless, walking the streets of broken attempts, falling weak of loneliness.

You even said that love could be sleeping under a bridge and you still wouldn’t give a shit.

But I question you and say what if love got hit by a bus full of passengers seeking it? What if love was trying to catch you again as you fall?…

and what if love was a puzzle that is trying to find the pieces to put itself back together?

What if love was me? Now I’m homeless!