when the anxiety hits
i used to sit there letting it consume me
no
i refuse to let it consume me now
instead
i write
i write because I know I am heard
somewhere
by someone
i am not alone
anxiety does not own me or you
we decide if we want it to consume us
or if we want to fight it

stay strong
Devin Ortiz Aug 14

She says, "Go on, tell me."

So I do, I talk about these devils.
That sudden swarm inside,
I speak of the paralyzing misbeat
Of a stressed out chest.

"That's your anxiety?"

It takes me over, controls me,
Helpless behind a steering wheel
Of a maniac's mania driven horror
But I'm stuck for the ride.

"And who is this other?"

Nameless. Just a foul thing.
There were others, masks
A sea of voices, drowning me out
High tide and its sink or swim

"Go on."

When I'm calm, its quiet.
But I know they slither on,
The engrainimg entrenching thoughts
Of cruelty thats not my own.

"You're afraid?"

I'm wandering about the darkness
With fiendish things in mind
A pitiful puppet of anxiety
Waiting for the end of times

Alana Ray Aug 13

Why do I write poetry?

I've never though of it
like that.
Free verse is my preferred style
that's because these words
are my diary.

I give my emotions and feelings
on a plate for no fee.
I like having the ability
to just express me.

I let the words rip...
just really as simple as that
sometimes I can rhyme
other times eh... why bother.

Whatever comes to me
is what I put down.
I know I'm finished when
my chest isn't as tight,
when my breathing
is easy...

I know I'm done when the last
tear falls down.
I know... when I feel relieved.

Yea I love to write poetry, it's my therapy.

Wanderlust Aug 12

I am a sponge.
I soak up the light.
I soak up your tears,
And your nighttime fright.

I am a sponge.
I absorb your fears.
I draw in complaints,
Peeves that span years.

I am a sponge.
I suck in your words.
Endless ballads of
Pointless rhymes and verbs.

I am a sponge.
And as I grow,
The more I want to release
What I've come to know.

Danny Aug 12

I think I'm my worst psychiatrist.
While a good psychiatrist would diagnose the problem,
I create excuses for why the problem is there.
And then I create excuses for the excuses.
And then I create excuses for the excuses that originally excused the excuse.
And then I confuse myself with my own logic resulting in more anger, more confusion, and you guessed it, more excuses.

And ironically, this entire poem is just a big excuse.

I don't want to face my problems,
Knowing that they are nothing to worry about.
I'd rather cower at the "power" they hold,
Than try my hand at solving them.

But my hands are smooth, unbattered extensions of the very essence of me.
According to every person and history ever,
I have it perfectly.

And my hands aren't used to venturing within my inner workings,
Searching through the slimy and greasy machinery for the root of the problem.
No, my collar is white and my slacks are clean from top to bottom.

From time to time as the sun no longer shines,
My hands become restless.
They yearn to take a look within, just a quick little check in.
And nevertheless, I confess, I allow my hands
Entrance.

As always, I wince at the pain. It shocks me through my core. My eyes cease seeing, I begin to question my being, while my face is dripping in tears.
My surgery continues on
for seemingly years.

There's no novocaine or amnesia to numb the fiery emotions that release from my body.
Instead I'm forced to endure the awkward combination of these combatting feelings.

Then I finally rip from my innards the tight grasp of my hands.
They breach the surface covered in dark, black blood.

I don't feel much better afterwards, no I really don't.

I just create one final excuse.
That helps me wither away into sleep.

I know myself as much anyone else
But I don't want to admit,
Just as much as anyone else,
That I need help.

The three poems I have made private here are all about you.

It seems like everything about my opinion of you is some kind of private matter.

Honestly...

I still care about you.
I think you're amazing.

Maybe I still love you.
But not in the same way I used to.

I'm sorry I'm not worth all that much nowadays.

I just wanted you to know that I'm going into therapy soon.

Getting help.

After all.

You said I needed to "sort myself out".
Okay.

I've been through a lot of things that shouldn't have happened to good people like us.

Or maybe I was never that good person.

Who am I kidding?

You're not reading this.

Last time you did, things went wrong and now all those poems are private.

So.

I can't even muster up any courage to say "hi" in any situation.

So I won't.

Makes things easier.

Okay.

Sorry I didn't try harder.
Sorry I wasn't there.
Sorry I called you late at night.
Sorry I still remember the circus.
Sorry I still want to send you gifts for your birthday and Christmas.


I...

Sorry I didn't say anything the right way or even at the right time.

Anyways... talk later?

Or never I guess.

You'll be busy.

And I have a therapy session to go to.

Help.

a therapist
prescribed me rose-tinted glasses.
she told me
my view was too blue and the pink
would counteract my countenance
so i would
finally
see normally.
a “shift of perspective”
she called it. i didn’t
tell her that the color i saw wasn’t blue, it was gray; i didn’t
tell her i had fifty pairs at home, perched pristinely on the vanity; i didn’t
tell her i pressed them onto my nose and stared into the mirror; i didn’t
tell her the only shift of perspective
was the way the world
became blurry,
water welling up and
flinging a flimsy filter
onto my mirror when
i realized this wasn’t working,
this wouldn’t work.

instead, i smiled
and added another pair to my collection –
this time,
it was different. this time,
when i put them on and
nothing changed,
i convinced myself that it did.
i swore i saw swirls of scintillating salmon in the sky,
swore sunrise was less montonous and sunset less muted.
“it’s gonna get better, it’s better, i’m better” ran through
my mind, up
my throat, out
my mouth and swirled
in the air and coated every surface until
my breath was reduced
to those words:
it’s gonna get better, it’s better, i’m better.

and each day battered the words,
each hour chipped away at their strength,
each minute batted them out of the air until
i was lightheaded from oxygen deprivation, stuck
gasping with a gaping mouth in a vacuum.

when i shattered my rose-tinted glasses
and used the shards to carve
two neat little lanes up my forearms, when
i smeared the rivulets of
blood across my eyes –
because a pink filter hadn’t worked, but maybe,
maybe red would –
i whispered to myself:
it’s gonna get better, it’s better, i’m better.

"I don't understand you seem so happy"

          "Didn't you go to school to learn how to deal with people  like me? I project what people want to see."  

                        "Yeah but look at you, you understand why you're acting this way, you can logically decipher it, you don't even need me sitting across from you taking notes or telling you what you need to do, you already know. But you still want to die. You still sit across from me every week with new scars, new stories and I want to help you but how do I help someone who already knows?"

                  "Ok, but that's my problem. I can logically see what is happening, I get it, I'm fucking depressed, we're all fucking depressed and we all die, and inevitably the happiness I feel will disappear and worse things will come my way ----
          and god forbid if worse things don't come my way, I'll live a meaningless, numb, long life. Doesn't that thought keep you up at night? Doesn't that just epically fuck you up? It's all I can think about. And if I go home and finish the job I started 3 years ago and actually end it, I will have lived a short,unfulfilling life that left nothing on this planet I was proud of, except for the grief the people who love me will feel  
..........and well. I don't want that."


"Yeah, you're right."

"Fuck. So what do I do?"

"You keep living and endure it."

Conversations with my therapist.
SQUID Aug 2

Let breath slow dissolve
A tablet of ink
Colourful dreams
Deep -- flow skywards.

blue jae Jul 26

this is is the curse summer has gifted me:

ninety days of subway stations and
over-zealous music tastes and
yearning for some different faces while
ignoring them in all your places
placemats dripping in spilled drinks and
way too much for one to think and
saying yes to too many suggestions
whilst ignoring all of the important questions

drummers with harsh words and nice eyes and
a dad with no clue how to apologize and
feeling pitch black in a field of light and
why haven't i showered since sunday night?

it's plants you grow that always die
and stupid books about stupid lives
but you're at the library almost all of the time
and you still lie awake just before the sun can rise

its how meditation lies
and all reciprocation has died
it's your own foreign tongue and
a longing for anyone
it's your word against yours since
no one cares to listen and

summer seems to have gone on too long

gonna write a poem everyday again.
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