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Prose Poetry Depression Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Depression

These Prose Poetry Depression poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Depression. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Depression poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lucila

So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dis-order

I sit here twitching, shaking, in a panic
I don’t want to do this again, I hate feeling frantic
Don’t let this happen, don’t let me slip away
Into the darkest depths of my mind, nothing to say

At first these experiences seem inviting
But here there’s no such thing as deciding
The light is so bright and luminous at first
Until its’ quickly dimmed and the pain it causes hurts

The darkness creeps in like a predator
With the dim light as it’s’ competitor
Who’s going to win this time, this fight?
Who’s going to give the hardest bite?

Stuck between pure happiness and sadness
There is no explanation to this uncomfortable madness
Waiting, waiting; for this too shall pass
While the emotions in my head encompass

My heart surrounding the insufficiencies of my head
The feelings so heavy as if my heart is fashioned out of lead
Like I’ve got shackles on my hands and around my feet
In this state of mind everything seems obsolete 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

shattered

I can't look...

I watch in disgust
As the scale goes up,
And my stomach drops.

The scale is both my best friend 
And my darkest enemy.
It can either save me,
Or be my utter demise.
But either way,
It doesn't lie.
It always speaks the truth,
No matter the consequences,
No matter the circumstances.

Too much
Too fat
Too imperfect

That's what the voices whisper,
Quietly wreaking havoc in my mind.
Silently breaking me down,
From the inside out.

The mirror breaks
As my fist collides.
Hundreds of crystal pieces,
Stained red with crimson liquid.
The image of myself long gone.

Too much
Too fat
Too imperfect

They echo in my head,
Relentlessly breaking my dreams,
Until they're just like the mirror;
S H A T T E R E D

Too much
Too fat
Too imperfect

The ringing in my ears
A mere whisper,
Compared to the sound
Of my breaking heart.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My blessing, your curse

Where else do you want to mock me? That my Sister is a Whore? And she owns miserable men under her Lure? Or is it that I have intense body Odour? Maybe you will taunt the clothes I once wore which you already tore. So, what else is it? That I snore? Or that a drunkard is my Family's Core? Is there anything more? Or something laughable you really saw? Perhaps, you just realize I'm poor? Please anymore flaw? If you're bitter, it isn't my fault don't use me as the Salt on your wounds. I know, I stimulate the stretching of your Catapult and my smile makes you want to join a Cult Even with the Insult, never forget that I'm mere Human who can halt; despite not giving a damn just to make you understand that I'm simply a friend.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pink Vulnerability


I continue to feel
the searing pain. 
ever constant.
so keen.
Not the kind
    that heals fast,
      open wound that closes.
But, the kind that stays vulnerably
       with the passing years.
Three decades 
        and still counting.

Woe to this pain!
With laden anguish, 
The heart's bemoaning.
Thinking it was born
     without a name.
Only to find then
     at a much later time;
giving in.
Oblivious now.
Unashamed
    that my bosom groans,
        complains.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

I Disappear

wake up to serendipity
ignorant and unknown
shaken and not stirred
blond can be bond

Reality, metaphor and cliche
cheesy juvenile decay
Love, care and hate
past the use by date

of fights and torment
and well deserved lament
salute to the solitary reaper
with Metallica... I disappear


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This I know

Why?
The question so easy
So difficult to answer
I know why

Why?
It leaves me broken all over again
I know the answer, I know, no, no, no . . .
I don’t want this

Why?
This pain that’s not all mine . . . hardly mine
It rips and tears and cuts
My heart to pieces 
It bleeds and drains my soul away
I wish I never had one

I know why
Why did I have to teach myself the answer?

I know why
I wish I was blind, deaf, numb and uncaring
I wish you never made me

Why?
Why did you put me here?!
What did we do to you?
I wish I knew what to say!

Why?
Every time life turns good and gets better
You smash it all to bits and pieces
You rip and tear and shred me apart
Again and again and again!!

I know why
God help me I know why
It leaves me beaten, battered, discarded and defeated
Alone . . .
Always alone in the end
I don’t want to know why anymore
Take it away
You can do it if you try

 
Why?
I cannot stop myself from know why
And these words sound hollow empty like me
Why not me and not other
It was I who stole and ripped asunder
A world, a life, ahhhhh I curse you!!!!!
Not them, not him, not her . . 
Me
Just me

Why?
Can’t you . . .
Just go away and leave us be
Why can’t I cry for anyone or anything

Why?
Would someone please tell me
Please
What good is a heart and soul anyway?
You break and take them both away all the time
You bastard!!

Why?
Ask me why I don’t believe in you!
Ask me again why I believe I live in hell!

Why . . ?
Just tell me why . . .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

And Then I Pray

You came into my life, why? I didn’t invite you, I never wanted you around, you 
know this , but you will not leave, you don’t know how much I hate you, and yet I 
don’t hate anyone or anything. When you hate, to me, it is the same as killing. If I 
only knew how to kill you ……. It would have been done many times over. I awake 
every morning and there you are, ready to make my life miserable, the one thing 
you enjoy most in your life. Wherever I go, you follow bringing your misery into my 
life. Why cant you just leave and leave me in peace? I fight with you every day, and 
it hurts so much, so much it hurts to fight with anyone, even you. There is one 
way and only one way to rid you of me. I think of this often, but then where would I 
be? I would not be, because you are part of me, your name is bi-polar. Handed 
down from my father and from his father, and from me to my son, but he refuses 
to recognize you, so he fights you without help he could get. If he would only say I 
know who you are. I hurt for him everyday, and then I pray.
Oh God please forgive me for what I have brought upon my son. Son, I love you, 
and am so sorry for what you go through. Maybe someday we will talk again. Dad


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Harvest Of The Seed


  
  Each field is barren white with snow, 
around me blind, they know.
I see.
Darkness brings the haze of dawn, 
how many must it show.

While many miles of web it's barb, 
my flesh, 
it tastes and grows.

Bringing home the wheat, 
ground white, 
and powdered souls, 
spread open far and wide.

Touching only youth, 
not men, 
Each gem from stone, 
pours out and lost our seed it keeps.
No more.


j.McC. 

Is It Poetry 
 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Controlling Men: Physically, Mentally, and Verbally Abusive Men

All men (the loser boyfriends/husbands) think that it's their right to be physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward their female companions (girlfriends/wives), well they're wrong. Most guys are always beating their girlfriends/wives up every single day just because they didn't make their men dinner, do chores around the house, or whatever. It seems that these womanizing losers are way better than their women. Actually, they're not; they're idiots. Controlling these women and being physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward them don't make these Neanderthals men; they're like childish cowards. All guys think that they're the only breadwinners in their families and the women aren't. But guess what--they're not; some of them don't have jobs. And does anyone knows what gets on my nerves? Men always cheating on their girlfriends/wives with other women, getting them pregnant, and not taking care of the children they already have. And those controlling, abusive men, they're always telling their female spouses/lovers what to do, what to eat, where to look, and who to talk to. I mean, who are these womanizing losers to judge other men and to boss these women around? I mean, who does that? Everybody doesn't even know why they'd bother spending the rest of their lives with those abusive idiots. This whole saying by these controlling abusive men have been getting on everybody's nerves and my nerves, as well: "You're-not-to-speak-unless-spoken-to," this "You're-not-to-talk-to-your-family" ordeal, this whole "You're-not-to-have-guy-friends," and this whole "You need me! You're nothing without me! You have no money! You have no friends! Everything's in my name: the house, the cars, clothes, everything I own! You're useless! You're worthless! I own you for life! And you will respect me!" Where I come from, the rest of us nicer guys, we treat our women with the respect they rightfully deserve. The last time I checked, the mothers have raised their sons to treat women and other people with respect, but they now know where they've gone wrong with those womanizing clowns. My suggestion for the women is for them to leave their abusive husbands/boyfriends before it's too late because if they don't, they'll end up in the hospital or the morgue. To be honest, these women, they never should've met, let alone dated or married those abusive men to begin with. And if these abusive men think that they can control those women forever, they've got another coming.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To weather the storm

Storms above me, storms below, Storms of violence, Storms of sadness, Storms of anger Storms of people laughing, mocking my existence Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights of hope and friendship echoes Through the storms The storms surround me night and day No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see No mercy found, twix’t night and day But for the brief repast The gift night brings To weather the storms I travel unseen, unheard Past those who give the storm its powers To the places in my dreams Where night and day are side by side And Wolves gather below the moons Midday and night, to sing Their songs of peace Of legends from long ago Of loyalty to their pack And the fight to survive. To weather the storms I look to the wolves As a cub, to the mother The strong live to be the hunters Whilst the weak become the prey The storm takes all Partial to none it hunts One by one, boat by boat, all fall to the storm Human, Animal, Angel, Demon, the storm resides in us all waiting to take hold to drag us to its depths when hope is gone darkness rules until the Light is found hope is gone


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I want you to know

I know a girl more broken than the aftermath of a bull in a china shop. She knows that her pain wont stop, so instead of trying to fix that, she only ever tries to make others happy. She puts everyone above herself and if life was a shelf shed be the ground. The most common sound escaping her lips is sorry. She cries herself to sleep every night, she has cuts on her arms as if too tally up all the hate she receives daily and if she could pay the bills in blood she would be able to afford a living. Lately all she's been doing is forgiving. 

	I want you to know that it's always darkest before the dawn, so if you have to wait another hour for the sun to rise, I will sit beside you with a watch and a red bull the size that two people need to keep them up just long enough to fall asleep together. If the weather is on our side or not, I will stay just to make sure you know you stay up long enough for that sun to rise. It's not a surprise when it does, and if it means you've gone a day without painting in blood, I will do what it takes to keep you from it another day. I suppose what I mean to say is;  

	Put it down. Just pretend its not there; let it disappear into thin air without a hair of a trace, because all it ever does is hurt you. those cuts mark the scars of your pain that will never fade. Cut into your skin, you don't remember the beginning, but you can find the end. Send a message to all the people that made you start, you're a work of art that just has a splatter; it doesn't matter, you can paint over it. Just sit down and look around you. You've built so many walls. You're trapped in a labyrinth made to keep people out but in turn you've locked yourself in. You can't climb the walls, all you hear is the echoed calls of your pain. 

	If you search for a while, maybe you'll find another face trapped in their own maze and you'll both smile; because it's comforting to know that you're not alone. Maybe that person you meet can give you a boost over your wall so you land feet first in grass. You don't need to ask, they're still there; trapped in the maze. Its sad how the price of happiness is almost always someone else's pain.

	PART ONE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

DAMAGED MY TRUE LOVE

written 17th Sept 2013



When it comes to love, I AM poisonous
 don't let me curse another, leave me loveless

For the first time in my life, I felt your pain and cried for your heart
 my heart finally hurts, knowing I passed this pain from the start

Please find help to set your heart free
 trust me, it's not a life you recover from easily 

Damaged goods I told you, unrepairable
 but some how, you managed the impossible

Unlovable for my entire life
 yet you had no problem, getting me to become your wife

Yes, it's been more than both of us should have ever had to bear
 at this moment, every cell in my body is overwhelmed, so I really do care

Please don't enter my life's pain and despair  
 you don't deserve it, you are so patient and filled with such love

I'm sorry I let myself fall in love knowing it would poison you
 soul mates forever and eternity, my love belongs only to you...




Details | Prose Poetry | |

Losing A Friend

As I am awakened by the dazzling rays of the star we call the sun,
 I am appalled by that peculiar notion,
 because as I peek out my blinds the day is so dull,
 thunder rolling ever so treacherous,
howling like the night time winds, 
the trees are usually green but now all I see is the origin,
pain in my cranium I begin to feel it spin,
 as I try to cry out for help my jugular tightens up,
 I can hardly get any wind,
 as I lay there on the floor struggling to remember last night's events,
 I begin to have flashbacks, then I get a glimpse..one sip, two sip, three sips, or four,
 I see abandoned whiskey bottles and joint papers crumbled on the floor,
 before you begin to judge, yes I know its a sin,
 but this is the only way I know to cope,
 after Losing My Best Friend....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The jungle of doom

The jungle of doom
 Lies mysteries beyond the grave 
You hear the calling of desperate pleas
 thou the wind blows pain of hope
 you know there is No escape
 All else is lost in the mist
 He stalks you with cunning warp
 You feel his wrath afflict you
 As the violent trees attack
 You know nothing but fear
 rapid forces of evil violate you
 The grass smothers you with shame
 you can see there is No comfort
 Nothing but the cadence of darkness
 The future is gone
 Nevertheless the clouds of fury taking over


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hopeless

When mothers are delightful to deliver a male child 
And fathers feel huge pressure to see a new born female child  
The Almighty is hopeless !

When people are busy for more money 
And children are growing to destroy their childhood 
The Almighty is hopeless !

When political leaders leave to the king of policies  
And democratic people are silent for personal interests 
The Almighty is hopeless !

When Temples , mosques , churches are captured by communal forces 
And religious people forget to their original religion which is humanity 
The Almighty is hopeless !

When truth is defeated by untruth 
The Almighty is silent and The Sun rises in the east .
I am hopeless ! 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Details | Prose Poetry | |

No More...

Hello? 
Is there anyone out there?
Can anyone hear me?
Hello?
You there. Yes I am speaking to you.
Please can you help me?
Where are you going?
No. No. wait.
Please dont leave me alone.
I need your help.
Why is this keep happening?
Why does it hurt so bad?
What did i do to deserve this?
Im trying. Believe me Im trying.
Im trying as hard as i can,
But i just cant do it.
Everywhere i turn
seems like an opportunity
but when i turn to that opportunity
it seems to jump everywhere
I cant no more. 
I just simply cant do it.
Doctor. Nurse. Best friend. Mentor
So much potential but will it come true
Or will they just disappear into the blue
I just cant no more
So many times i hear im sorry
i have never seen this occur
then i get a shrug of the shoulders
They dont care really
As they move on with their lives
to my pillow is where i run 
To shed my tears
thinking about all of my fears
Thinking of all my faults
No where to run, nowhere to hide
All the pain is just building inside
it hurts so much but i must smile
because i must fulfill my duty
My duty to serve all out there
but what happens when i cant
will the world end?
will the earth shatter?                                                                                               
no they will move on and find another
one to be strong as a father and
as caring as a mother
but what about me? huh.
Is there no one, anyone
please hear my plea for help
please hear my plea for guidance
the pain. the hurt. the disappointment
is just too much to bear.
please what more can i do
please what more can i say
i dont want your money
I dont need your pity 
A shoulder to lean on
is all im asking for
A caring heart is all i seek
please...please....please
do you see these tears flowing from my eyes
I hope you do because this might
be the last time you do
For after tonight,
there will be no more me...




Details | Prose Poetry | |

ID

I have a secret place to go whenever I feel the need.  It is a place that is visceral,
dark, and so unforgiving that the joy of being there sometimes makes me want  to stay
longer than a moment.  There, I am like a beast uncaged, running free, and devouring all
that I see.  When the beast runs, there is no stopping it.  There is no leash or muzzle to
keep it at bay.  There is no place that it  cannot go, and its desire for retribution is
like an insatiable hunger in its belly.  The beast there is ever hungry.  "Where is this
place?" you may wonder.  I always try to remember to take the key with me.  For it is the
barren, lonely, and impassable door you cannot reach...it is the Id within me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

To Touch The Heart

                                                       To Touch The Heart

                                           I to feel and gain respect from love,
                                           But knowing that your lover is much fond of,
                                           That warmth and caring that love gives,
                                           From feelings shared and now love lives.
                                          
                                           But that of life's little minutes one can see,
                                           A picture of perfection and reality.
                                           Surrounded with love's handy touch,
                                           And that glitter from feelings felt so much.

                                           But with much beauty from loves shame,
                                           One noticing that hate has lost this game.
                                           And now tell me of how to feel from pain,
                                           When my heart touches your name..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

One and another

Entering a world, a cold cruel place for some of the unlucky ones
Race, gender, sexual orientation, accomplishments, assets, pant size, you name it
What you are is a result of where you stand in these things.  If you have all the right requirements
You just may be accepted.  But those not possessing the right requirements
Those born into a destiny they may never hold the strength to fulfill
The winding vine of pure evil creeps deliberately, hate is planted in the depths of the untrained mind
Judgment, loathing, murderous, ignorant, fearful and malicious thoughts toward some
Those that are floating through this gray, lonely place.  It is no place for you that much has been made known
Fighting off the thoughts of hate, judgment, self-loathing; just to make it through another day
How can one go on, how can one continue when hate is all that is received
For destiny has been previously decided for some.
However, as you go on through your day
If there is one thing here that you take with you
Realize the pain of ONE 
Is NO different 
Than the pain
of ANOTHER.
No matter your race, size, gender or skin color.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

What's the point?

What’s the point 
in living
When death awaits
What’s the point 
in breathing
When you can not 
feel the 
swelling of your 
lungs
What’s the point 
in love
When you heart 
only aches
What’s the point 
of being in a 
state of 
awareness 
When you are not 
really alive
What’s the point 
in doing your 
best 
When it is 
rarely 
acknowledged
What’s the point 
in making all 
happy
When you are sad
What’s the point 
in smiling 
When your heart 
bleeds
And that colgate 
smile
never touches 
your eyes
What’s the point
in anything?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wisdom Of Error

The pretty girl on the bus makes me sad. She is beautiful in toque and scarf but I'm 
not ready for winter. Her hair is drawn back in woollen grip; the hat is black though 
she wears it in bright pink. The red of her scarf lights the dapper down jacket of 
winter. I wish to sing to her and whisper my wisdom of error. She grins as I 
purposefully walk by again, she knows and I adore that because she is sheepish 
and bashful yet courageous in hesitation. The bus is empty but I choose her 
immediate right and she sighs in thanks. I ask her name to which she announces 
Sarah, I am overjoyed by the simple beauty but my 'membrance of all life’s glory in a 
single package anoints my lust for life and love lost. She shies sensing my usage of 
her in character and I back peddle seeking soon required response to the foreseen.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

ANGELS AND DEMONS IN HER HEAD

ANGELS AND DEMONS IN HER HEAD "Abort it!! and from this day and on, no more us. NO. MORE. US.!" (These the earthshaking words she heard from him.) This was the man that made her feel she's pretty. She's nice. She's worth every care and touch, but this time, he denied her. He want her out from his life. Blues skies he promised flew fast like the wind, so are the smiles, moon and stars he vowed to share. The light and shades, they are painting nine months ago turned fast in a minute in an envelope-tinge of black. Liquid diamonds- a curtain flow from her eyes as that one test. Two red lines now change her life. Sponge soft are her knees. Gypsy are her shaking heels. Chilly sweats cascade to chaperon her tears. Alone. Scared. Frightened. Torn. Horror is the athlete running through her reverie for she knows... She knows the world she's in may stop and stare at her. No lax brows no smiling eyes rather arched brows and big eyes ready to claw. Lightning fingers and tidal palms may grace her face. Lashing monstrous words she will hear. All these plugs, churns... regurgitating to her nerves. Angels and demons knocking to her head-- they, she --all in a battle for life. Should she tell her parents about this? to her mama... who didn't even care to stop even for awhile just to ask how she is? Her mom who prefers going out with her friends rather than with her? To her papa, who like more to watch a television? who likes staying out 'til dawn more than paying attention to her talks. Yes,her phone is always new. Her room as big as her school's classroom. Her pocket like a walking bank. Her parents taught her to speak but when she wanted a talk no one there. She walks so well. They even tell her she could be a model. Yet, her parents refuse her for a stroll. Ah! She is hurting-- HURTING... Her hurt is cutting deep reaching further to her already broken soul... Her life-- like the leaning Tower of Pisa even a collapsed castle; a black hole but lo! some voice within tells her: "soon from your belly a new life will begin..." _____________________________________________ Sponsor Debbie Guzzi Contest Name Tam Lin Placed 3rd... O.E. Guillermo 11:49 pm, April 14, 2015


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An End to Aloneness

In my life I often feel I am alone; alone in my thoughts, alone in my musings, alone in my day-to-day movements and unsatisfying activities. I move like a ghost through hallways and down sidewalks, unnoticed and, at times, gratefully so. 
I do not wish to be eternally alone. I long for togetherness. But despite this desire for a real connection, I find myself regularly retreating from that temperamental beast that is human interaction. 

“Come on now, sweetheart. Don’t lower your head. Don’t look away. Look up! Smile at someone! No! Don’t go back into your bedroom. Don’t lock the door! Why are you doing this?” my brain will plea. 

I can’t help myself. Aloneness is comfortable. In being alone, I don’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I don’t have to please anyone else. I can think anything I want, wear anything I want, listen to anything I want, and laugh at anything I want. 

And still there remains that nagging desire to be loved and wanted and needed by somebody. I do not know the feeling of being truly desired. I do not know what it is like for someone to crave my company, my smile, my kiss, or my touch. 

                                                                              But I would like to…

I cannot make someone love me or like me or want me in some primal way. It may hurt, but I cannot make that handsome boy want to hold my hand or brush my hair back behind my ear. I can only struggle on. I can only work within myself. I can only try every God damn day to hold my head up, keep my eyes fixed ahead, a give the world the best smile I have. I and I alone can bring myself out of the safety of my bedroom and into the bright world that lies beyond that locked door. 
	
I often find myself alone with nothing more than my thoughts and the ever-strong glow of a computer screen. But no longer will aloneness be the constant in my life. It is true that never having known the caress of a man’s hand on my thigh doesn't make me any less of a woman, but I fear that if I stay confined within myself much longer I will begin to become less of a human. A flower cannot grow if it retracts its leaves and petals every time it feels the warmth of the sun or the kiss of a gentle spring rain.  
	
And I want to grow. I want to grow so tall and blossom so big and beautifully that every place on earth is touched by my shadow at some point in the day. And I will grow. I will push myself and share myself with the world, and finally
							                                 finally
								                                   finally
know the closeness and comfort of love and honest, unabashed companionship.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Homelands

====================
Homelands
Arabic poem by: Adel Said*
Translated into English by: 
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
=====================

At the end of the line I stand
As should a professional homeless do
Exactly at the end of the line
Before the committee on homelands distribution 
Among those who fall in the overflow
Over the needs and capacity of time, place, 
Maps, 
Population records,
And cemeteries. 

At the end of the line I stand 
Hanging like a teardrop in a funeral 
Collecting what have fallen of my years,
My fables
And my extinct dreams,
In the bundle of my childhood that missed her doll
And my deferred share of my mother’s tenderness.

I have a flavor the midwife failed to sever
With the umbilical cord
In my heart, there is still a nursery rhyme
About a duck swimming in a river
And a songs about a fair maiden’s tear dripped down with  kohl
And my fingers are still trembling
In fear of the lesson and the swish of the teacher’s ruler.

I have in the piggy bank of my life
Volumes about hunger and wars of social classes
Burned by the fascists 
Who also snuffed out the tears of forbidden love.
I have in the piggy bank of my life
Dates I saved of palm tree’s yearning for the land
And some palm pollen dust still traveling in my lungs. 

I have no signs of prophecy on my forehead 
And no halos of saints 
But my homeland that’s sitting there 
Amidst the committee on the homelands distribution
Will recognize me
And I'm in the queue 
I will not compete with the homeless comrades 
For their homelands 
And will not accept that illustrious one on the right 
And not that opulent one on the left
I’ll accept only that one,
That one whose head is a palm tree 
And whose arms are two rivers.
 
- You , O Mister!
 You who was at the end of the line,
 You haven’t been recognized
 By any of the homelands gathered in the committee,
 The exiles snuffed out your flavor
 And withered your songs;
 Despite the high level of adoration in you
 No homeland on earth
 Understands your language.

 - Even  that one? !

 - Even  that one ..
And out of pity 
We decided to grant you a berth,
A berth that will never come to an end
You will waste on it  
All that’s left in your lifetime’s piggy bank 
Of tears, 
Of dreams loitering outside the fence of life 
And of years flying, like neglected pieces of paper,
Out of the window of history! 

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Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi
USA
*  Adel Said is a poet from Iraq who resides in Norway


Details | Prose Poetry | |

sober

                                            s o b e r...
The fuse burns the skin; 'till years disappear in the sear. Those scars allow us to be who we are - - - urging us to bleed truth- - -  so we can speed through the blues----- fueling us with the go, the giddy up to show, with each blow we grow,---and we Leggo our Ego -------just so the doubters we encounter shout louder and louder--- tho' they ain't got a clue as to who... or what we're about, or the journey of pain ballooning our veins with insane clout-------- and we wish upon a trouble free time to be near, yet it's far...- - - like the stars in the sky----...---sobering the view...while we drink the abuse------Still, the lit fuse burns the years till our fears cry.-____so hopefully, we learn from the scars when our tears dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beans on Toast

two more days before i get paid
the pantry is almost empty
4 slices of bread and a can of beans
if i'm careful this could be plenty

i have half a pint of milk and 3 bags of tea
and a little bit of sugar
things could be worse
i could have nothing
i'm really a lucky bugger


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Prose

A happy little girl. Bright colors and sunshine. She grows older and enters middle 
school. She is teased constantly. Not the right hair. Not the right clothes. It hurts, 
oh God it hurts. She forgoes colors. Black and gray are good enough. She gets older 
and older still. High school; a new place, new adventure. Dare she hope...new 
friends? Foolish, foolish girl. New friends? New enemies...new pain. Dyed hair...what 
color? Black. Black hair, black clothes...black heart. Poetry, music, the only escape. 
Dark, Pain, Despair...Destroyed. Heart bleeding and inside she's screaming. but no 
one sees. No one hears. Alone...so alone. Who would understand? No one. Dying 
inside. Drowning in pain bottled up. Invisible. Misunderstood. Who is she? Who is 
she!?! Screaming, bleeding, dying. What a waste. That's what she is, a waste of 
space, a waste of breath. Better off without her. The world's better off. Despised, 
Destroyed...Death.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man Introduction

I wrote the Invisible man poems many years ago. These poems, and I have not submitted them all, was for a little girl who died in a road accident. They are a tribute to her memory. It was a dark and very sad time and I miss her so much. The Invisible Man poems are supposed to to show the the darkness of my world, the way I felt. They are very precious to me. Thank you for reading.

The down and out, invisible man series of poems is about a young man going out into the world and finds he cannot cope. He starts off life on a large slum over spill estate that moved the poor people from London into council housing.
As all the people that were placed their where from different parts of London, gang and turf wars began immediately. This estate was built in the middle of nowhere so the were no jobs, nothing to do and drink became a major problem in the 1970's.
Anyway this very intelligent young man young man thought if he could move away he might have a chance. But his lack of social experience meant he was leaving all his friends, family and loves. He was leaving his history, his past, his roots.
He gets a good job a nice home, new friends, but there is something missing, his real friends. As he grew older he finds he misses his hometown and becomes depressed and he cannot cope. He loses his new friends his job his home and finds himself out on the street with an addiction for strong drink.
He has the clothes he has on and that is all. He is seventy miles from his old hometown and decides to walk back and try to start again. On this walk he becomes dirty, unwashed and ripe. His hair now grey is long and unkempt and he has grown a beard which is also gray.
So he walks and walks until finally thirty years after leaving his hometown he returns. Nobody recognizes him, they think he is a vagrant, which he is. He wanders around familiar places and feels that he has at last come home.
So in his long thick overcoat, long gray dirty hair and unkempt beard, he could be anybody, so he just becomes a lonely old vagrant that people cross the road when they see him. This is a true story.
I hope I can do this series from the eyes of a vagrant and give an insight of what it is like on the other side of society.
Please read these poems with an open mind and feel the way the vagrant feels. He has emotions, needs but most of all he wants to say hello to his old friends and family, but cannot because he is too ashamed.
So he watches daily life, in his old hometown lonely, an outcasts sense of belonging. He is The Invisible Man.