"anhedonia" poems
so don't change then
you seem to be perfectly comfortable
in your insanity.
wrestling, withdrawing,
anhedonia coming alive in your party
master wrangler of sorrow,
been there, done that.
and like watching
the christians and the lions,
i am rooting for you
but know you will shed blood.
and when you are devoured enough
you come to life,
crazy sonafabitch.
stay where you are then,
forget em happy pills.
i will go certifiable with you
as long as you do not forget
the lunacy of our love.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:55 PM UTC
‘Twas during inner turmoil that a certain yearning arose
Whispers of breakage reaching deeper as time goes
From the disillusionment of reality it was forged
Of seething rage the desires hunger gorged
In following certain conformities felt like being a prisoner
The will to resist the motions of many being aimed to muster
To not be like a tree that has to be cut or uprooted just to move
To be driven by reasons that to only ones viewpoint can behoove
Looking at another view of the coming uncertainty
As a pathway to many possibilities with regards to unpredictability
That stopping a tragedy is sometimes not the thing to do
Lest one forgets that the phoenix must burn down to rise anew
Or that Ragnarok is followed by a great rebirth
Who can know what revelations a raging flood might unearth?
Being lost might as well be the way to find an elusive longing
The remedy to the Anhedonia closely and ominously looming
When being chained to the rhythm just compares to an inner futile feeling
Knowing that a greater horizon is missed by the act of settling
A bet on the odds that epiphany might be found in whatever form
To behold serendipity actually being brought by the coming inner storm
In using the great idleness to plan the restoring of a balance
And to see clearly without the feeling of rushing pressure and turbulence
The path and pace may change to the deeper quest not yet ceased
In bringing forth the long sought betterment through a cataclysmic release.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 12:32 AM UTC
Bipolar
There’s this label
Which moves everywhere
with her
Now and then
Distracting people
And
Making her life miserable
Because they think
It’s something different
She’s something different
There has been a breakdown
She’s mentally sick
But do you listen to her soul
Asking people
If they’re not different
From one another
Or are they not
Allowed to express themselves
Everybody is different
And they prove their existence
In their own ways
She has to behave
As if she has something
On her conscience
Something lurks every second
In the corner of her mind
With a sublime confidence
Of acceptance
But
Anhedonia comes alive with the words coming
Out one by one or rather
All at once
Incomprehensibly prefect
But this label
Those pills
That prescription
Only swallows her
From within.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
the roads are wet
i don’t know when it rained
maybe i’m not
a writer anymore
maybe i stopped
paying attention
maybe i left
behind all wonder
in my adolescence
maybe i forgot
how to find meaning
in ordinary things
flowery air
and lemonade
gingham dresses
and handwritten
letters covered in
glitter and cursive
maybe i need
to read more books
and take more walks
and spin more
beach house records
then, maybe then i’ll find
stars in blue irises
and messy hair again
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
I have moved in on your front lawn and called it home.
You let me stay, climb in my tent, and spend nights in my arms, the world outside muted by the glow of where our skin touches.
I don’t need anything from you, capable of standing on my own two feet, carving out my own curve of the world, but I want you, hope for you, long for you, think of you.
You need someone to stand, balanced and still, a beam holding up your house. But me, the individual?
Your want seems so much less than mine, but then Anhedonia holds you too close. You don’t want anything, not even yourself.
If I could pry her fingers loose, if I could fight your war, but I’m incapable, can only stand outside offering what I am to you.
My feet bleed from walking barefoot down your road, and I know that even if you decide to love me, so much worse is yet to come. But I can’t turn away, when you feel just like—
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
symptoms of anhedonia.
a triumvirate, perceived
Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
noir
from **** knows where.
their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
reach into my prozac pillboxes
&crunch my anxiety (meds)
into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
their yellowing teeth.
I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks
For He Sits At midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch , ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For *they will not
leave me
untilthe
cloyingly sweet
perfume of Death
is scrubbed clean fromthe
pulse
point
of
my
wrists*
There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.
Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.
here is the untruth:
i am here,
Penelope at her loom,
waiting for a lost lover whom I know
will take ten years to come back to
my awaiting arms.
here is the untruth:
in three years time,
I’ll still be dead.
here is the truth:
nothing exists six feet under except:
hell
chalk dust
powdered calcium.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
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
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC
you wanna be happy dontcha?
Not 'till I reach the state of Anhedonia
never heard a such place.
Well I guess that you've been blessed
Good cheer and health, good taste I guess
Seems Old Man your way's the best
But I wasn't taught the same
and i know you're not to blame
What the hell is it that it makes grown men drool
Well it's not the Bright Side but The Dark Side of The Spoon.
Blissfull Bafoons The Beguiled, miscreant, Fiendish Fools.
Dim Lit hid in Vastness of the last Lunar New Moon
Beg that you see and awaken. You and every one else awaken too.
how good does it feel to fly above ridicule?
Gimmie some money and ill show you old fool
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
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.
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
In nature, as in civilised homes, there is evidence of conformity
That only significant study would make apparent,
but his studies were suspicious and neighbours would talk
The nose is bleeding and his pretty song is skipping
on the jukebox by the bathroom door
Anhedonia now is constant, the pathos inherent
As their mother went missing years ago
While they read Proust by the window,
and the day was drawing closed
Their father was sick with Absinthe shakes
whilst little duck starved in the pond behind the house
On disagreeable days,
profound introspection
becomes not more than
subversive psycho-babble
and the words he speaks
are dust on the tongue
a bother and little more
Purported to be perpetually depressed, his cool demeanor left an impression
on his sister, as she would gaze upwards at his face, displaying world-weariness
So Weltschmerz they called him and his cool was palpable
but only her smile could bring colour to his fa-*
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
you drift over me, a gust of fresh air
resting gently onto my bones
but even your feather-light touch
digs like a thorn into my side
your comfort rejected, smothering stultification
mutual love exiled, favoring isolation
apologies i whisper as i lower myself into the ground.
Dec 11, 2017
Dec 11, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
fall hoppers kick to grass
as I walk down
sun-bleach lane
the anhedonia I felt yesterday
is pelted by the wind
away
away
to the breeze beyond
trash-bin creek
I walk past
a meddled roadside lover
kissing her own bloodied hand
must have been
bitten by the white-thing
panting at her feet
the image comes
and passes
with the balanced
autumn sunshine
I touch the twist of barbed wire
that guards a
re-habitated pond
a drop of blood
wells and surfaces
a moon-blazed penny
the dulled copper sting
of flesh and money
merges in the glory
of shortened days
all is accorded to the fleeting
nature of my heartbeat
that which comes and passes
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
The Fall leaves are rustling,
forming some sort of poetic image
I guess.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 9:13 AM UTC
oh
good intentions,
good intentions
on being too much and not enough:
love me like you need me;
like my arms are home
not embers
for I’ve
growing pains, but in my
chest
and a map of you on the back of my knees.
the danger of vulnerability
my love, our love,
a parody of true love,
a marionette propped up by pleasantries and
obscura.
the tender fingers of moonlight caressing the hills, the skyline
in the nighttime as we traverse;
silky tendrils of hope and the mysterious promise of midnight,
stars blooming across space -
this is
our anhedonia
and with you I taste god;
impossible to get to know the
crevices of you and not
pour myself into them,
consume them.
play my heart strings like an
instrument,
guttural.
make me scream.
I was a wonder girl but not a
forever girl
much too much to
press under your thumb.
find someone more wholesome and
crackle-of-our-fireplace.
oh good intentions
good intentions
say goodbye.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
They say machines are built not born. By definition a machine is an apparatus using or applying mechanical power and having several parts, each with a definite function and together performing a particular task. So what separates a machine from a human? Most would say a heart, a brain, a soul. The ability to have compassion and morals. As a human what happens when all those aforementioned are lost? Think about the movie The Wizard of Oz. We have a woman, Dorothy who, in her journey, helps a lion find courage, a tin man find a heart, and a scarecrow find a brain. At the end of the movie all of which are found. Now let's play the movie in reverse. Let's say they all started off with the things they lacked and throughout the journey they lost those things that made them human. In what case would a human lose those things that make them human to begin with? Maybe disaster or love lost? Events that take place in our lives that eventually break us down to primitive beings in which we go into an autopilot state where survival is the only subconscious focus. We're hand fed drugs to help us cope, block out the bad, make up for what society thinks we lack. "Chemical imbalance". Highs that make us forget for brief periods that our lives **** and make everything more bearable. If I'm trying to put a barricade between myself and misfortune then I'm also blocking the good that is also trying to enter. I don't get butterflies around the girl I adore anymore because I'm taking medicine to help with anxiety and depression, when before that, she was one of the things that made me forget and helped me cope. She was my high. Now I have shut myself off. Anhedonia sets in. I can't feel anything. Those things that once made me human have now been lost. Thus, a machine is born.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
***** clouds are underneath
grass and pebbles floating deep
A scenery so majestic
crushed by comets to tiny bits
Mountain water tasted sweet
yet the thirst cannot be quenched
For their hunger for the care
cannot be easy to compel
Anhedonia.
Cannot feel.
Songs of puzzled mystery,
Anhedonia
If only pleasure was a name,
it be called by many names
By those who lost their fiery flame, often tangled in messy dreams
they lacked the warmth to give care then hope suddenly fade
The birds will pray for them to fight
The wolves will howl for their defeat
Anhedonia, cannot feel.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 6:12 AM UTC
He kisses upon my lips,
expecting an apocalypse.
Yet my heart beats dry when he looks into my eyes.
The closer he pulls me, the farther I push his touch away.
I try to speak his name,
but I moan yours in hopes of ecstasy.
The memory of you has branded itself upon my mind.
I long for the sweet nectars of your flower,
but instead I am stabbed by his sword.
Jun 17, 2024
Jun 17, 2024 at 10:49 PM UTC
Anhedonia takes me under her wings,
With the softness of a feather she strikes against my forehead and takes out all the joy.
She smiles at me with crooked teeth and tells me it's alright to die.
Anhedonia forces her hands into my chest and rips my heart out so I can't feel the rhythm of my passion anymore
Then she puts me on her lap and starts to rock me back and forth, like I'm a little child. She tells me it's okay to feel the emptiness. She leans in and kisses me on the lips, ******* out the last bit of energy in my vessels and soul. She picks me up and gently lays my body down. She pushes her thin fingers on my eyelids to shut them as if she wants me to sleep. Yet she whispers nightmares in my head. Anhedonia took control of me, and I can't find a way out.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 7:16 AM UTC
Brew tragedy tea
and drink without
tasting it.
Keep checking the meaning of
'forever',
in case it's been redefined
in less absolute terms.
Shiver through the heatwave and watch
the colour bleed out of the summer.
Dig a hole that won't be deep enough.
Shower off the crazy sweat and grave dirt
and pretend like maybe
you'll do the dishes.
Rupture your inner workings
as you scream at the universe
for ******* up so badly.
Lapse into the cold, sterile embrace
of catatonia, grateful
to feel nothing for a while.
Cry so long and so hard you forget
why you're crying,
then remember and cry
longer and harder.
Try brokering a deal with fate's
Appeals Department: offer
your organs, your eyesight,
however many years off your life,
to get him back.
Search for meaning and find none.
Rage against the perversity of it all.
Howl that death shouldn't feel derivative.
Remind yourself that this
isn't just a sick joke.
Hate Elisabeth Kübler-Ross for being right
and yourself for being so generically human.
Realise how little
knowing helps.
Reacquaint yourself with anhedonia.
Try not to hate the blue sky
or the birds who have returned
to sing in his back garden.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
I haven't been eating much.
My shaking hands beg for nourishment,
And only then I feed it.
I've been sleeping a lot,
but it's disturbed, restless.
I've been drinking more and more.
The red wine at night soothes my sadness.
It even makes Him feel farther away.
Just to wake up groggy, unclear, sad.
Alone.
Here I am, punishing myself.
Unable to wrestle out of this cycle.
The wicked voice inside my head is back,
and She's louder than ever.
She likes it when I'm catatonic and vulnerable.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
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.
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
I was falling.
I knew that somehow my feet had tumbled over some sort of cliff but could not recognize the scenery nor how or when I had reached this peculiar predicament.
Along with the always present weightlessness of falling through the air, there bubbled within me another feeling; one I did not expect.
Apathy.
The blissful faux virtue of anhedonia that coursed through my veins like a venom; pumping with my slow heartbeat....
I fell in slow motion, giving time to muse on such things while the skies around me changed drastically from clear to cloudy, from wistful clouds to a menacing overhead growling.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
In the back of my eyes though appeared a hooded figured shrouded in black with only a slight sneer appearing through the visage. This figured caused the blissful venom to tighten and turn sharply into a fear that made me unable to breathe.
I screamed as I started falling faster and mouthed words that couldn't be understood.
Tears poured and fell upward like rain from a tormented ghost.
Just before the ground embraced me and swallowed everything I ever was or ever would be, time stopped and there was silence.
I opened my eyes and to my surprise, the blurry sight of two figures appeared. One emmitted a faint glow with a softness about him; a calming aura...
while the other gave me the feeling of power and rage; a darkness about him like a creature bearing teeth against the night.
In unison they whispered five words.
The blurriness faded and I gasped. They were both distorted caricatures of me.
In the blink of an eyes, I was yanked upward with a speed so fierce that perhaps my body would not be able to handle it. Through the stormy and the calming skies...
I woke up out of breath to the sound of an alarm clock screaming beside my bed.
I blinked a few times and sighed, recovering my breath...
"Don't give up on me...", I whispered.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
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.
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
Everything is starless.
What hand claps count the silent syllables.
How easily the sentiment of humanity leaves itself
in ghast emissions. This dust, now, remarking at itself.
But now, how words misspell out of me in grey, phosphorescent gestures.
All lights bend from me.
If they had heads they would turn away, ashamed.
Everyone is quiet in the darkness.
This infinite moment has stolen the lungs from me.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC