I heard a loud rasp on my big wooden door
Worry had shown up knocking once more
What do you want? I cursed at the wind.
He was looking for Trouble, his dear, childhood friend.

As Worry went in by me- a strange car appeared.
Anxiety, Fear, and Doubt were all here!
Well, isn’t this great? I didn’t know they could drive!?
Either way, it was clear- my new guests had arrived.

They stumbled over each other as I clung to my door…
leaving invisible smudges across my clean kitchen floor.
They greeted the others who sat perched on my couch.
Trouble grinned extra wide, an otherwise grouch.

They made so much noise that I now couldn’t think.
So I unwisely offered them all something cool to drink.
They mumbled, “No thanks. We’re doing just fine.”
Anxiety seemed nervous, and couldn’t decide.

Please state your purpose? Why are you here?
I shouted above them to make myself clear.
“We don’t really know. Remember? You let us in?”
They all stared blankly back from my once cozy den.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like us here?” quipped Mr. Doubt.
Fear nudged the others, “Hey? Is he kicking us out?”
Now I had their attention as they huddled together.
A fresh breeze named courage had altered their weather.

Why I’ve just discovered, I have no more space!
No room for your game of ‘cat and mouse’ chase!
As my faith-filled the room they saw I believed…
they shrunk and took notice and each started to leave.

I rattled off scriptures…all unrehearsed.
Can’t remember the chapters or exactly each verse.
Soon it was quiet- peaceful order restored.
I pressed my door to and gave thanks to the Lord.

©gmw
   2015

We sometimes create our own demons that live inside us.

dark blue washes over me, blindingly blue paint covers my soul

and wets my irises and penetrates my pores so azure so cyan

my heart is a lump of obsidian rock pumping tar and ashes in indigo veins

chaotic brain so so charcoal with broken pastel scribbles

and Indian ink calligraphy death notes tarnish the white papers and

darkness shrouds my face like a woolly scarf on an asthmatic thermophobe

suppressing and suffocation... I'm suffocating under the weight

It drags me down and I discover the grey that is invincible and

I flail out of control external force metamorphoses to internal anguish

and the floor feels homely or fit for a misanthropic tearful sleep

or do we simply assume to understand each other inconsiderately

when we hide so much from even ourselves for fear of being discovered

and disturbed in our instability and oh that edge looks attractive

but so does the noose so significantly symbolic but I walk a line

and tumble out of acrobatics, circus tent closing in with psychedelic stripes

on my harlequin painted face barely blinking it'll simply never end and

it snakes around a Modigliani throat like a koala to a tree it holds tight

an Aivazovsky moon beams down on turbulent waters gleaming

and rippling with a flirt so alluring so alluring I gasp in awe

My lies are smashing through to appeal to your traumatic design

My truth your utter destruction and faith's demise and it lasts

tethered truly and surely like a giant beast you believe tame

but not enough so because it's impossible to kill all free thought

control is what you want and I laugh in your face like I'm okay

but I just want to dive and float away to some distant land

where ethereal dreams take us to the moon and beyond

freedom no longer an impossible whisper in the dead of night

dare not let the oppressor hear us or see us crack and splinter

spoiled and unsuited for this lifestyle so hollow, plastic and fragile

eternal torture you promised me if I tried but my mortal life alone

fulfills those standards and I'll tear your heirloom ideals apart

with a rage greater than Jupiter's unearthly storms and scream

you won't you won't you won't you won't you won't you won't

I will leave... through the front door or the bordered back window

I will have my freedom and taste the succulent air of day

not in spite or scorn, that's so you, I don't think that way.

I'm not vengeful I think only of the ether

Someday, somehow, today, never but why wait when

there's such an easy solution that doesn't involve

moving majestic mountains and burning down inhabited jungles

why wait when it is simply a matter of indifference

the only way out is directly through, no useless foolery

I welcome the sea, the raging ocean, the blistering desert,

the eternal moon over a defiant forest on a glacial mountain peak

Gazing down, staring with concern and never judging

Because what is there to judge but inevitable so-called sin?

Gymnos = naked/unarmed, Pais= Youth

Sit
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
Breathe
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
Feel
the tension building up within your spine.
Try
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
Fail
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
Run
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
Fight
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
Lose
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
One.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Ten.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
Thirty.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
Forty.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Fifty.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
Sixty.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
Eighty.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Ninety.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
Hairs
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.

This poem is about my hair condition Trichotillomania (pronounced trick-o-till-o-may-nee-ah). Whilst I do sometimes pull subconsciously, most of the time it is an extremely compulsive urge, which is what this poem addresses.
Here is a link to give you more information on the condition: http://www.trichotillomania.co.uk/about_trichotillomania/diagnosis.htm

drained but hopeful. hopeful but drained.

are things alright now? am i? can they be? will they be?

they might be. i will be. they could be. they might be.

i 'd like to be okay soon please

The crab apple tree blooms
Flower petals flow in the breeze
Daydreaming
Sitting in the sun
Laughter fills the air
Mixed with the tunes of the radio

I feel upside-down
This building
These people
Keep me right side up
But its not my anchor
I need to make it
My mind is
My heart will be

Dragonflies
Birdhouses
No birds
Baracaded by the strong breeze

Sparrow Junk Jun 12

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Are not meant to
paint me as weak.
I struggle with words,
struggle to be heard
But talking about it
is never absurd.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Have made me consider
if life should be brief.
But I felt selfish
for making that wish,
So instead I continue
to try to exist.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Are reminders of a time
when I couldn't release.
I may have outgrown it
May never have shown it
But this is my lief
and I promise to own it.

Needless to say, this was born from a period during my younger days.
Moissa Padin May 31

depression isn't beautiful.
it's so damn ugly
that it checks its reflection on the mirror
from time to time
to make sure that the cheap make-up
holds up;
so that no one would notice,
no one would bat an eye
on its ugly and pathetic visage...

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