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Brumous Jan 27
The flowers of Anhedonia grows upon me,
Its roots engulf my whole being.
Serendipity long lost, Only the remains of this wintercearig feeling inside this small yet feeble vessel.
I don't know what to do or what to say; maybe to fill up that satisfaction I crave.
Mind slowly turning insane,
I keep things to myself, and that's all that I can say.
All the florets blossom in the longing shade;
of darkness that might never fade,

Anhedonia.
Charleigh Huston Sep 2020
Am I a MACHINE?
For I feel;

automatic
broken down
dull

There’s no
Repairs to be done

I am a Machine -
Full of bolts
And scrap
Driving me haywire
Until;
I don’t work anymore
Anhedonia - An inability to experience pleasure from activities usually found enjoyable.
In
Your
Absence,
Everything
Pleasurable,
Loses its taste..
Anhedonia - inability to find pleasure in what one normally finds pleasurable.
tonylongo Mar 2020
The hurricane winds are a bore
When they’ve been pushing you around
For two-thirds of a century
There’s nothing surprising about what torsion can do:
I know, I know,
It’s real but it’s all in your head, both at once,
Your collarbone is at 227 degrees toward Polaris
And meanwhile your left hip is rotating in a
Hyperskewed dimension only plottable with
Imaginary numbers, which is a problem
For peristaltic functions dependent on
Newtonian mechanics – sigh, shiver, burp,
Keep your awareness don’t fall over
BORING.
You’ve been on orange alert since Ike.

Let’s run down the repertoire of available distractions.
Jokiness? Sometimes worked in small
Person-to-person settings (you see the current problem)
But amazingly hard to pull off in text;
Mentally mugging the innocent online?
Leaves a bad taste.
Obliterating lust? Seems to have annihilated itself
Except in pain-in-the-*** dreams, the actually-asleep kind.
Guitar, or similar toys? Only fun as long as you keep finding
Novelty – which turns into, you know, work.

Drowning your mind in other people’s stuff?
This is the scary part.
Sometimes, still, for a little while; but never for long;
Not the freshest, not the most age-old time-tested brilliance;
Metaphors fall apart – the plot devices cannot hold -
You blink twice and the wind’s whipped the page out of your grip
And twisted your neck down up inside your ******* again.

So blowblowblowblowblow, babybrainballoons,
And Crack Your Cheeks,
Coz the only shred of hope is that if we all keep
Caterwauling our pissant poetic brains out at maximum vocal volume
Preamped and reverbed by global satellite systems to some
Unpredictable transhuman force it might eventually
OutShout the drone of Earth’s idiotic entropy
Kuz krist I’m bored of standing up in the wind
Ike was Dwight D. Eisenhower. My earliest memory related to print is asking Mom about a Daily News headline saying something about "IKE"
Kissy Marie Dec 2019
Trying to jumpstart myself
To empty the emptiness inside me
Trying to jumpstart myself
My mind dismissing all that I hear and see
Trying to jumpstart myself
Feigning smiles and laughs and cheer
Trying to jumpstart myself
Though I'd much rather just not be here
fray narte Sep 2019
So you tell yourself,

don't write about your sadness;
bottle it in
like the forgotten pills
in a medicine kit.
Bury yourself
underneath a bunch of blankets
and hope that the land mines inside you
stay hidden,
just as your scars stay hidden
beneath those bands.

Instead,

write the prettiest, emptiest,
make-believe poems —
nothing about the eclipse
constantly obscuring the sun.
Nothing about the random break downs
that no longer wait
for midnights and 3 ams.
Nothing about the aimless walks
and the piles of books
you can't read
because reading is exhausting
and everything is exhausting.

You tell yourself,

don't write about it, otherwise,
you'll be forced to trade places
with all kinds of sadness
you've secretly been hosting
all this time,
and they'll cut their way out
through the fresh stitches on your chest.
And you'll have to bleed
all over again,
and not just on your wrists,
but on your eyes
and on your legs
and your thighs,
down,
down,
dripping to these words.

So again, you tell yourself,
don't write about your sadness, darling —
don't write about it.

But then,
how do you stop writing about sadness
when you never run out of it
to write about?
Charleigh Huston Sep 2019
There’s no more;
Pleasure
Joy
Reason
Liberty -

Sing me summertime blues,
Color me different hues -
Take my joy away -
Set the rain clouds at bay

Drain my time from me -
Allow rain to fall in melancholy,
Sink it all in drugs
Let my heartstrings flutter about -
Lost and forgotten
Fluttering free and misguided
Alone in the dark
Like little lightning bugs.
fray narte Jul 2019
I used to be that girl who believed in staying close to the things and to the people who make you feel human — make you alive. But these days the book clutters look just like a patch of misplaced stars while the dusk crawled in my head, and the poems look better when they're crumpled or written in red inks and on my wrist, and all the songs just come and go. Today, I let all four of my cacti die. Today, my eyes took the form of the nimbus clouds, and my body reeked of petrichor; maybe it has returned to dust. Today, I felt too empty to even mind the emptiness. And today, I would've written a eulogy to that girl who used to believe that we should all stay close to the things and to the people that make you feel human and alive.

The thing is, sometimes we're not alive anymore.
fray narte Jul 2019
there's a reason for all the midnight cigarette breaks in the fire escape while hoping my mom won't smell the smoke. there's a reason for every uneven haircut; products of sleeplessness or stagnation or something i no longer understand. there's a reason for the paperbags of dysphoria and cheap bourbons lying untouched beneath my bed, and for the days when my bed felt like home and home meant emptiness and emptiness was preferable to my favorite song or to the scent of the beach. there's a reason for letting go of all the obvious lifelines and deliberately sinking into this disarray of black holes. but you breathe marigolds and sunlight dipped in bottled petrichors

and tonight, i no longer know how to translate my storms into a weather you can understand.
Pyrrha Mar 2019
I used to gaze at the clouds all day long
I used to love to dance in the rain
I used to love the sunshine on my skin
now I never go outside
I just watch as passion seeps from my life

I used to walk on eggshells for you
I never let them crack or make a sound
I used to stand on a pedestal with you
despite my fear of heights
but what did you ever sacrifice for me?

I'm not the same as I once was
the smiles that I wore
have all gone out of season and expired
but out of all the things that I have loved and lost
you are the one goodbye I don't regret

Keep your pedestal
I'm building myself a shrine
A person like me
Was meant to be worshipped
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