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Sparrow Mar 22
Colour me in your mind
Am I vermillion red
or prussian blue?
Maybe a mix of the two?
Or just a hue
Of simple forest green
No wait, aquamarine
like an underwater scene
Deep and darkness within
Yet maybe you enjoy shades
that are bright
and they look so
under the sunlight
But true colours show
only under the grayest skies
to the most observant eyes
You only get to know a person truly when they are at their darkest moments.
Oh, happy Holi from a Norman Gortsby ;)
Downloading patterns
from other people's behavior
we can create disease
DIS-EASE.
Feelings of uneasiness
translate to body
fear, stress
parasympathetic nervous system
doesn't learn to relax.
Put your hand on your belly
inhale
exhale.
The subconscious and
conscious mind can
unknowingly harm one
another with nocebo thoughts.
See those triggers in your blood stream?
Through the microscope
sending you messages
Please deal with me they say
The body in flight or fight
The fight of an **** society
The plight of finding peace
among those who wanna
cure things
but not in their backyard.
Changing perceptions
to master genetics
like be ******* zen
and
calm the **** down.
Maybe an early grave
this year because
of taking anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, anxiety medications
instead of chanting on mala beads OM OM OM America or
'Merica. Let's make 'Merica great again!
Kristen Mitchell Dec 2018
Splinters in my hair
splinters in my heart
from the frame that
once held our photo
together like
synchronicities we
fell for by
believing in some
false paradigm.
I see the sun as
red
you see the sun
as a fire ball
bouncing in time
it isn't all on the same page
anymore
these perceptions
but
if we held out our hands
splintered hands
splintered lies
perhaps
we could find some
truth left
in the way we look at
each other.
Christina Jul 2018
"happiness" her mother said
the baby gurgled in her arms
absorbing the word

"love" her father said
the child watched as her mother was beat
absorbing the scene

"family" her social worker said
the girl walked away from her home
absorbing the memories

"satisfied" her foster parents said
the girl slept on an empty stomach
absorbing her own body

"love" her husband said
the woman received his punch
absorbing his anger

"family" her daughter said
the woman hugged her daughter holding back tears
absorbing her innocence

"satisfied" she told herself
the woman looked back on her life
absorbing its lessons

"happiness" she had wrote
the woman died in her bathtub
absorbing the drugs
words only have meaning because we give them meaning
Alaina Moore May 2018
Perceptions, like opinions,
are often set in stone.
Established like law of the mind
they are easy to create and laced with fallacy.
Even the widest gaze cannot see everything.
Through each strangers eye
a new “you” is manifested.
Thousands of “you” running through their minds,
but none of them are… you.

You are the master of your creation.
Based on your reality
you must adapt to cope with life.
For some the burden is less than others.
The spectrum of content and discontent
lay within the realm of perception,
and the inevitable unknown of external factors.

I once had a perception of self
too highly influenced by those around me.
Whose perceptions I foolishly held on to as truth,
for lack of a better understanding.
I self-destructed into everything
they wanted me to be.
Disingenuous and jaded
I shattered from the lie.

There is an unmistakable familiarity
with rock bottom
that I have grown to welcome as home.
The fall down is vigorous,
hitting the ground hard enough
to knock every molecule of air
out of your lungs.
You lay there breathless hoping that
perhaps this is the crescendo.
Once you decide to breathe again
you can rise up.

From the outside I am not a strong person,
about as average as they come.
I have an inexorable burden
that you cannot see.
Yet another perception
only I can perceive.
What I must do to appear normal
is utterly exhaustive.
Compile daily responsibilities of a “normal” person;
I have to sprint to compete with those walking.

In the shadows I can show the pain
but in the light I must remain in character;
an actor on a stage.
The endless mind acrobatics
twisting and pulling myself to fit this mold.
A mold I was never made for,
so it hurts to obey.
As much as it hurts, I remain silent
about the realities of it all.

Whilst I adapt to my environment,
you call me weak.
As I pretend I am not in pain,
You note I am behind.
I pour my energy into your sorrows
You consume, endlessly.
If I ask for this treatment in return
You point to my condition,
Note your perception of unsuccessful,
based on a reality
you’ve manifested
for me.

My reality is one only I can see
however, that doesn’t change the impact
of the failure nomenclature.
Comparing me to you or any other
encumbers my progress.
Your lack of understanding
is not my duty to teach you.
My façade is not for entertainment
it is for survival.
I wrote this reflecting on a toxic friendship and a toxic past. I have a nervous system condition (fibromyalgia) that is often dismissed as being over dramatic, attention seeking, etc. When the reality of the situation is simply that I'm in a lot of pain, and I am doing my best to not lay my burdens on others. If I were honest about how I felt people would stop asking. This poem is really just a reflection on many things - most importantly. Those whom are close to me not recognizing the struggle because, I suppose, I am too good of a performer. I spend, or have spent previously in life, a lot of energy and time trying to help those I care for. Recently I have noted that many do not do this in return for me, and if they do it's rarely comparable. Given that my energy is barely existent, to invest in a relationship with no return is detrimental to me, and at this point in life no longer an option. This poem is me venting about over a decade of struggle to cope with this condition, me venting about how I feel that no matter how hard I push myself, for some people it will never be good enough. So perhaps this is just me trying to find peace with that.
habiba May 2018
Whistling, wandering in the twilight
Closed, forbidden, straining for pure light,
Longing for flight

Dreams that haunt,
Making the present oblong,

Give me flight, give me reign, give me freedom,
but oh so grave,
Equal parts fear, equal parts need,
Strange this devouring new greed.
Robin MacCuish Feb 2018
If I am not to speak my truth
Then how must I speak?
With lies and deceit?
If I am not to speak my truth
Then how must I speak?
With silence?
Without words
Without hands
Without sound
Without the bumping of Braille
Should I speak the truth in a language you cannot understand?
But wait what could be more frustrating
Then speak with words you know
Yet,
Still,
Cannot understand

If I am to not speak my truth
Then what truth must I speak, but that of lies and deceit?
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