Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nigel Finn Feb 12
With pen in hand, I start to write
Whatever I am feeling,
But what I feel is utter *****;
I'm tired of self-healing.

But, pen in hand, I start to write,
With the hope something will change;
Letting it out may make things right,
Or a little less **** strange.

So, pen in hand, I start to write,
And perhaps it helps a bit.
Maybe tomorrow, or tonight,
I won't feel like total ****.

And, with pen in hand, I start to write
Of hate, and pain, and sorrow,
With the hopes that it may just might
Make life better tomorrow.

Now, with pen in hand, I start to write,
And I don't feel quite as bad,
So perhaps this life is worth the fight,
Even though it drives me mad.

With pen in hand, I start to write
Whatever I am feeling,
And what I felt was utter *****
That needed this self-healing.
it seems to me
that breathing deeply
and counting to ten
just gives them
another opportunity
to irritate me
even more
Pluck these feathers one by one
never mind the setting sun
I now have only just begun
to do what cannot be undone

Condemned to this tiny cage
Perched upon its iron stage
It's no way to come of age
So alas I am enraged

I have prayed now to the lord
to ask if he can afford
for death to be my reward
But again I am ignored
Forever I'll be bored

Pluck these feathers one by one
never mind the setting sun
I now have only just begun
to do what cannot be undone

I will gladly trade these wings
to feel ordinary things
I care not what this may bring
so, don't ask for me to sing

I suppose the time is nye
to my wings I say goodbye
I will never get to fly
and I'll seldom see the sky
but that pain it felt alive
Like a caged bird, I will anxiously pluck out my feathers until my escape is forever out of reach
Psychosa Jan 23
I feel the fire begin to rise within
the belly of the beast.
I fear that the fire will consume me,
so I dim away its flame.

I go through the world,
a shell of being,
with a whiteness in my eyes,
but no longer seeing.

The flame comes to the surface,
but now I know
it is not my demise.
The fire is what makes me alive.
So I spread my wings,
and rise.
Jeremy Betts Jan 13
They tell me, they promise me, I'm not alone
But I can only go by what I've always been shown
Unwanted, undesirable, freek show, just a small sample of all I've known
I wish my inner abuser would adapt another tone
I don't own my own thoughts, any positive feeling is only on loan

People act like I hone in on this curse to be worthless
Like I thirst to be anxious
Like I have to coerce this anger and bitterness
Like I enjoy being immersed in the hopeless
Like my first thought is the worst on purpose
Like I enjoy all my deep rooted issues constantly rising to the surface

Then comes the question that brings me back to reality
"What are you doing to get control of this? Not enough certainly"
Honestly that's another cog in the circle mosh pit of misery, part of the continuity
I'd give anything for it to be as easy as everyone claims it should be

Because what most people see from me is rehearsed
My final diagnosis can not be reversed
The totality of my issues couldn't possibly be unearthed
But that doesn't change the horrible landscape I've traversed
I wouldn't be able to tell you what I'm worth, all I know is...
...I am this, for what it's worth

©2024
Samara Jan 2
looking inward
a molten metal
of iron ore
smoldering rigid
covered by blackened ash
brightened by the wind

the only light i see
is when the embers glow
and the brighter it shows,
the faster it goes
but i'm okay with that
because it's just another
mark of the ego
Heidi Franke Dec 2023
After he died
Without warning,
I planted a tree
Announcing
Just as suddenly
The Serviceberry
To the others
In the garden
Each bud of a branch
  welcomed by the fresh earth
And dormant bulbs yet to burst
The Aspen as role model
Hastily, deeply
she was added
As quickly as he left
In pursuit of
Recouping buoyancy after starving for oxygen.
Consoling under her generous shade
Begging for silence of sufferings and
deep sorrows

Three years have passed
Has it been that long
There they are,
our memories,
in the control room
That cling, stab like a blade
Taking over the clock
A contagion of disorder
That eats away
like acid
Explicitly unwanted  
Clarity of that night
Frozen in time,
like the winter
  it happened.
Time ended without warning
Deaths metronome gave birth.

Uneven disbursement
Over one thousand days
Since
Asking why,
Why?
Why!
Prone and exhausted.
Drowned in tears that forged
A lake of salt
Why then
Do we not float?
What's holding us up?
And another thing,
Where does the wind
Go when its gone?
It dispatches
   without warning
Whirling in circles,
Catching conditions
Why am I
not so
shaken then?


The Serviceberry has yet
To bare fruit in its
Short life to fifty
Holding steady,
Enduring the rooting road
In the pragmatic ground
Surrounded by leaves from seasons
As messengers of compassion, companionship
At the foot of her trunk
An offering
Once again in winter, here we are
Sleeping until the sun
Bleeds more time
Why does three years
Feel so heavy and capricious
As if it were just yesterday


Will the depth of sorrow remain
After she blooms and feeds
The hungry birds,
Over 35 species,
Who love her nectar
Caring for the offspring
Obscure, neglected and hungry
Giving back, keeping the healed
From further storms of
Sudden causes
As he did for his flock
Harbored in what the doctor
Ordered.
Tender
Loving
Care

Will heartache be replaced
By forgiveness?
Like the passing bus
That descends the hill
Into a valley of green hearts
Picking up new passengers
Loving another
Forgetting the importance
Of yesterdays bus ticket that
Flew out the window
Arriving without intention
To its destination
Neutralizing the anger
That came without warning
Glancing out the window
Towards tomorrow
As the birds songs
Are sung
The unintentional death and road of recovery.
silvervi Dec 2023
It's ok to feel angry and to feel desperate about things.
Rachel Dec 2023
Am I really upset over this shopping cart?
This cart that is full of heavy and huge products.
Am I upset over how many people may make me stop and block my path in this store?
Every single one, just trying to get by, with their very own shopping cart.
No.
It must be this feeling of being unheard.
To follow and soon becoming lead.
But where is progression when those who follow, don’t.
Annoyance, overstimulation, anger, boil.
Every stop, turn, push.
Stop.
Turn.
Push.
Is it my fault we’re here?
Perhaps next time I’ll come alone.
Hello, it’s been a while since I’ve posted or have written anything on here. I just wrote this poem in a state of built up emotion. As someone who gets overstimulated in stores where big crowds occur you might understand how it feels like trying to get by, especially if you’re in charge of pushing this heavy shopping cart. Mix that with unresolved and unspoken issues between you and whoever you come with and you get this. Thank you.
Next page