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Celeste Geld Mar 2019
Sunset grazing the horizon of my day
Where has it gone? My heart in dismay
The beauty escapes from the sides of my eyes
While my heart beats faster and faster
For the anticipation of the missing day.

Of all the things I want to accomplish
None of them done
Would I be content if only I could halt
To see the gratitude I yearn to express
But can’t find a way among all the distress

My chest crawls unreasonably
Watching a beautiful day turning into night
In contrast to my fear of missing out
My hand stutters and I reach for stillness
Although the wants seem so endless.
Psychic vicissitudes working cross purposes
One thought dissolves and another one surfaces
Feelings are fleeting
So watch as you’re greeting
The many sensations that consciousness furnishes
Bad Luck Feb 2019
I think I've always been alone . . .
At least, as long as I can remember.

But there's a part of me,
                       that still feels so connected --
To something near the source,
                        At the core of somewhere true.

Where we exist without our existence's limitations.
Where duality, begins to mean overlap,
                         And both fiction and fact,
                         One and yet another,
                         Things like "this" and "that"
                         Are the same, still . . .
Innocently unseparated,
                         In this place near to creation.

Maybe it's just my brain . . .
                        I do have a habit of creating dualities.
"Together, or apart? No," I think.
                       More like doubting infallibility.

                        --------------------------

So when I say I've always been alone,
I have to ask myself:

                                              "Have you really?"

"Of course you haven't been.
But who you are right now,
is no longer that you . . .
At least . . . not fully
."

                                      "So, if I was alone then,
                                       Does that mean that I
                                       might not be any longer?
"

"Oh, no."
I explained back to myself,
"I think you misunderstood me.
It's just . . .
That you'll never truly know,
Until there's nothing and nobody
."

                        --------------------------

That's a haunting truth to tell yourself,
            When you're off in your own head.
At least I won't be alone in my regret,
                         When I'm among the dead.
I'll find community in that.  
Surely,  that's the place to which I feel so connected!
The place where maybe two of myself is enough
                      to make just one of me feel,
Like I'm worth something more, than more or less,
                      In a place that's neither there, nor here . . .
At least, there, if I don't feel connected,
                     To myself, I may feel near.
Homunculus Feb 2019
There's a secret saboteur,
         hidden within everyone
Fashioning his cloak and dagger
         for a twisted bit of fun

The use of his first artifact is
         to eclipse the Inner Sun
The purpose of the second is for
         tearing holes so light may run

Through an ever looming darkness
         which obscures the thought of hope
Extending brittle olive branches
         or frayed lengths of climbing rope, so

That his ploys will surely tempt you
         that you'll try, and that you'll fail
Til his sadistic plotting leaves you
         feeling withered, weak, and frail

So joyously, he toys with thee,
         to watch his sullen victim
And thrives upon the notion that
         thou never wilt evict him

For how such lavish luxury
         couldst ever thou afford
When thou art but a lowly serf
         and He, a mighty Lord?

But if you only knew the truth
         it'd surely set you free!
That deep below the surface
         he is you, and you are he.

So, discipline this phantom
         tell him that you've had enough!
He struggles in control of you
         but you have called his bluff!

So now, you shatter chains that bind you
         now you break the psychic yoke
So now, you seize from him the dagger
         now you rip to shreds the cloak.
This is a poem is loosely based upon the Jungian archetype of the shadow. In analytical psychology, the shadow is the dark side of the psyche, which is typically repressed, and must be faced in order for the psyche to mature into individuation.

In Jung's own words: "The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it therefore,. as a rule, meets with considerable resistance. Indeed, self-knowledge as a psychotherapeutic measure frequently requires much painstaking work extending over a long period."

In the context of this poem, the shadow plays the role of the saboteur, who undermines the efforts of the ego below the level of consciousness, and ultimately deludes the ego into self deprecation. However, as the ego enters into a period of reflection, it comes to recognize the shadow and its effects on the process of psychic life, ultimately taking the first steps toward confronting the shadow and breaking its negative conditioning.

It is also worth noting that this piece is highly experimental for me, especially in its oscillation between archaic and contemporary usage. I will continue to edit, revise, amend, and re-write it as I see fit. And, after all, I still have quite a bit of Jungian theory to catch up on. However, I think this is a good start.
kyla marie Jan 2019
the early bird gets the worm, right?
wrong.

the early bird inches her way out of her nest in the morning, longing to stay snuggled up next to her lover.

the early bird leaves early so she can afford the rent on her nest that is falling apart.
the early bird goes to work and gets an early start on her day, just to come back home to an empty nest and sleep for three more hours.

the early bird takes long and scolding hot baths to ease her aching joints and to participate in some “self care”, even though it never really works.
the early bird stares at herself in the reflection of the faucet and dissociates.

the early bird takes some sleeping pills and tries to fall asleep at a reasonable time, so she can be an early riser the next day, too.
the early bird tosses and turns.

the early bird thinks about the dishes that are not  done.

the clothes are not washed.

lunch isn’t made for tomorrow.

the early bird has three tests this week in college and hasn’t studied for a single one.

the early bird hasn’t had *** in a week.

the early bird feels unnoticed.

the early bird feels like she is not enough.

the early bird feels like she will never be enough.
this is the first poem I have been compelled to write after about 5 years of not writing.
I wrote this in my bathtub.
shila n Jan 2019
Empty
She hears nothing
She sees nothing
Just a very dark place

Come here
The voice calls
It's happiness
She flies toward it, with light feelings, while smiling but-

Come here
Another voice calls
It's loneliness
She stops midway
"I'll be right back", she tells happiness
She goes to loneliness with wide arms opened
She was nearly embraced loneliness when

Come here
She hears another voice calling her
It's sadness
She stops.
"Sadness needs me", she whispers to loneliness
And she steps towards sadness
Loneliness tries to hold on her, but she didn't see it

Can you come here?
One more voice calls
She stops again, looking for the voice
It's confusion
She becomes baffled
She wonders whether sadness will be fine
If she goes to confusion now

No, don't!
Come here instead!
One more voice calls!
She turns and look at anger.
She looks at confusion and then anger
What is she supposed to do now?

Come here!
Come here!
Come here!
Come here!
Come here!
Come here!

Emptiness, happiness, loneliness, sadness, confusion, and anger call her
At the same time
Simultaneously
She keeps running and running
In circle
Meets no end
Everytime she reaches the borderline, she runs towards different directions
She keeps running

And she hears one more voice

You don't belong anywhere
Finally, frustration says it
She fell down in despair

Come here
She feels cold fingers around her shoulders
She looks up
There stands the death
Giving her the dullest stares
And creepiest smile
My psychiatrist diagnosed me from borderline personality disorder (BPD), and I've always have thought it was bipolar disorder. She explained to me that these both disorders are totally different.
in times of
complete
and utter ruin

the image that
runs laps
around my head

is that of:

eric andre
staring
into nothingness

and hannibal buress
screaming
for help
this show
is not comedy

it is the psyche
in a sitcom
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