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Francie Lynch May 2017
If not born into this confluence
From the cesspool of the waiting room,
Then elsewhere.
My consciousness schools me.
My ego insists.
I am, and was meant to be.
But logic countermands hope.
The fairies and angels are indexed
In the collected works of Aesop.
I am a network of synapses
Bleached into the soil.
Guff: Hall of unborn souls.
Josh Mayesh Jun 2017
“What's wrong with you?” they say,
“Can't you calm down for just a moment,
Take a deep breath--
Slow down,
Get centered and
Relax.
Stop being so **** negative,
What's the worry,
What's the hurry?
You can't solve every problem,
Let it go--
Hey not so fast.
Maybe, yes just maybe
If you stopped being so **** frightened
Well then maybe for a moment
All those fears would dissipate,
If you just stopped your overthinking
Your hypotheticals,
Possibilities,
If you let life flow all around you
You'd have that peace you say you crave.”

But they are wrong.  

Anxiety isn't nervousness.
Anxiety isn't cowardice.
Anxiety is a call to those
Whose eyes are open to the fight.

It is a certain sensitivity
An alertness;
A war machine never idle
There’s a buzzing below the surface,
There is no calm before this storm.
It is the constant sentinel
Vigilant in clash with
Paralysis,
There is no honor,
No heroism in this struggle
Whose burden countermands reward.

It is not the soldier’s nature to relax.

It is an instinct,
It is concern for you, for me, for others,
It is a special steadfast mutiny
When
Psyche fights the soul.

You say it is a weakness.
You subject me to societal court martial,
Though you cavalierly create conflicts
You say I am afraid.
But those consummate in combat,
Introspective and insightful,
True veterans of life’s battles
Know,
It's fear defines the brave.
kat Apr 2018
it is clear how she may echo petulance and malevolence; some do not dare even speak her name. her disposition is coy--almost skittish of those neighboring her. she has made her scar amongst those who have known her over the caducity, confirming a sphinx-like address. those around her relinquish her delicacy, overlooking the placid ancillary that fireworks from the spark of dereliction. concealed within is her saccharine and moonstruck revamped dynamism, a side of her eclipsed by timidity. a side of her remained blemished, terror-stricken, and polluted. a side of her that once was begrudged, is now veiling itself in the deepest ridges of her vitality. on occasion, the nectarous oblique of who she is, exposed. like a deer fresh from the womb, the chaste fragment stumbles into the spotlight--with bambi eyes and tremulous hands; this side of the cocoa skinned girl does not correlate with the scurrilous side that is seen most often. aghast, she falters one foot into her serendipity. almost customarily, the once biddable damsel with only good intentions is propelled into alternative cosmos. what was at once an effrontery and undaunted venomous flower, is now a teetering cherub. although, this side of her adumbrates. the affliction caused on one single fleshly made anthropoid countermands any dose of gallantry she may have had to avow this susceptible and thin-skinned region of whom she is. the propensity is hidden in the hot chocolate that is her eyes--she was always told her eyes are her worst enemy, because they can never seem to distort the truth, despite what her mouth may declare. in her utopia fabricated by her lack of marbles, she is impervious, free from harm, and intact. but she mustn't stay for the blue moon, for she will fall aphrodisiac for the azure she is indulged in. spiraling to the shoal of reality, she is face to face with annihilation of who she once was. a dove-like figure fighting against vexation of soreness. a soul so bleary and bruised, it no longer even fisticuffs in the onslaught. the virtuous side hands over the aptitude, only for the already puissant side to strangle who she is until the altruism fades from her face; leaving her indigo and ruptured. the iniquitous character inside of her vouching championship, snatching the halo from her own head and turning it into a choker. the stainless sidelong is hidden once again, under the arctic snow that was created by her cold heart. buried deep under the flakes of depression and abandonment issues, she lay there freezing and awaiting to be accessible. until then, the bruised up diminutive hides under rage and impatience. waiting, waiting, until someone divides the code that keeps her concealed. time is ticking, salvage her before is cold through and through.

— The End —