Best Anxiety Poems | Poetry
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New Anxiety Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Anxiety poems are below this new poems list.
by Bond, Kim
Anxiety, just leave me be
by Jones, Jessica
by Aguilar Jr., Todd
by Friend, Jenna
by Delaney, Suzanne
Anxiety a monster
by pennell , stephen
Anchors of Anxiety
by Sizemore, EJ
by macleish, maddie
by Marks, Hunter
by Chiri, Brenda
View all new Anxiety Poems
The Best Anxiety Poems
Listen to poem:
Come close and learn the mystery
buried o'er there on yonder hill.
The truth reveal'd in whisp'ring winds
was hid these past two centuries-
the penance paid for wanton sin?
(To swallow now this bitter pill
cast down my throat against my will
hath left me in a ghastly state,
and yet this tale I must relate).
An evil gale on that night blew
and terrors that he never knew
would visit dark upon that place
as death pursued and quicken’d pace-
yea, overtook him in the chase.
No starry night to light the sky,
no moon o’er head the sky to ply-
just blackness thick as London fog
as darkling creature took to wing-
his old unearthly mystagogue
hover’d o’er head - a ghostly thing.
And the raven flew into the night
And the raven flew into the night
A wager made the ante in-
the loser who for want of heart
throws in his last remaining coins
and prays tonight’s the night he’ll win.
A trembling deep within his loins
portends his money shall depart
and ne’er he’ll gain that fresh new start.
Lo! The deed held in pocket deep
ensures the promise he will keep.
And so once more a playing hand
is dealt before a wretch’d band
of cons who’d never pray’d to God,
whose backs had ever felt the rod-
the holy path they’d never trod.
But fate once more would him aggrieve,
no ace to hide under his sleeve-
without a friend or place to go
he leaves them now with face aghast
into the cold, harsh winds a’blow-
'O that this night might soon be past.'
And the raven flew toward the east
And the raven flew toward the east
The deed a closer look is made
and ‘fore too long ‘tis evident
that all is not quite as it seems-
‘tis nothing but a grim charade.
What happens next, as if a dream-
the guild of men with cruel intent
on finding Poe are now hell-bent.
And so into the night they sped,
a hound from hell inspires dread-
the rabid beast held fast by chain
in chilling wind, in blinding rain.
A movement in the distance seen,
a man alone or so it seems-
the hound set loose in low ravine.
It's prey runs high upon that hill,
each howl his tingling spine did chill-
alas, ill fate lays hold on him,
his future prospects e'er so grim.
The evil jaw upon him clench’d,
he screams aloud before the fall,
the poison in his blood entrench’d-
delirium soon cast it’s pall.
And the raven flew toward the light
And the raven flew toward the light
There as he lay upon yon hill,
the chase now o'er, the silence sweet,
he gazes 'bove into the night
as clouds departing shew goodwill.
The vision seen ‘tis nay for fright-
he hears a steady rhythmic beat,
so low and calm as if discreet.
The heavens part to his delight-
a figure standing in the light
extends to him an outstretch’d hand
as speech like waters bids him stand.
He wonders now if just a dream
or are things really as they seem-
a voice or just a nearby stream?
Quite suddenly he feels no pain
as wind abates and same the rain-
The hand then grabs him by the throat,
another tears his woolen coat-
his life doth flash before his eyes
and thro’ the dimly lighten’d sky
he sees his bride to his surprise
whose only word to him is, “Why?”
And the raven flew into the sun
And the raven flew into the sun
He breath’d his last then bade goodbye,
the troubl’d bard who’d gone awry-
the mystery resolv’d at last
on how it was that Edgar pass’d.
And if thou wonder how I know
these secrets held from long ago-
although the truth thou surely crave
I’ll take this knowledge to my grave.
Copyright © July Morning | Year Posted 2018
Anxiety (The Worst Noose In Town)
-- like flooding waters, creeping in
I count 30, seconds, holding my breath again
Drowning in agitation, overwhelmed by fear
I try to hide the pressure in hopes I don't pass out
My pores are soaked, from all the perspiration
I feel the pins and needles pushing in
My skin is ruined from all the peeling
At this point, I can't seem to win
Washed out by dead hope and desire
My soul is lost searching for a shore
leashing, grasping and ripping the chest wide
I count 40, seconds, once nausea can't be blocked
Everything about this moment is driving me mad,
I need to escape, however, my knees are too weak
I tremble while losing control to the emotional distress
My knuckles are pale, detached from reality,
wounds forced with further embarrassment.
Guaranteed failure surrounds my day
Numbness strikes my very essence - I can't move!
Lost in a room,
Therapy - even so I feel singled out
HAPPY VALENTINES (it can get the best of us)
---------------------------- love Linda
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2016
Unending darkness floods the skies
alone in dreams my heart must weep
no words are spoken or even cried
such silence lives where shadows sleep
My pleas just echo off the stillness
my tears find no comfort as they fall
my hope stands as a martyred witness
I pin no exit from this pall
Turn your head and spare no time
leave greater credence to lesser thoughts
take what is said in this poor rhyme
add to your bed of forget-me-nots
Think only of what should have been
No lesser loss, this mortal sin.
Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2017
A heart filled with nothing
A mind that thinks not much
A soul that runs on empty
A body that craves no touch
Is just an empty walking shell
With an attitude that cares less
Is just a person with no will left
And a life she's made a mess
Copyright © Brenda Chiri | Year Posted 2017
This is what it feels like to have your heart racing
and not knowing when or if it will ever slow down.
Your fatigued body can not keep up with its rapid thumping against your chest,
you’re winded after climbing a flight of steps.
Just the thought of tomorrow leaves you gasping for air,
only its not refreshing like the first breath you take
after being plunged under water.
It’s tight and sharp
as if your lungs are collapsing in their cage
like two popped balloons hanging lifelessly in your chest.
This is feeling like your socks are filled with stones
and the world is zipping past you on roller skates.
This is being a day ahead on your calendar,
never learning to live in the moment
and letting your life slip under your shaking feet.
This is storing your past in the corner of your closet,
hoping the clutter won’t occupy the space for your self confidence,
but every now and then it likes to creep out to remind you it’s still there.
This is remembering the time you fell off your bike in fourth grade,
or when you were tongue tied in front of your crush at age thirteen.
You can piece events from your life together through flashbacks
that will come when you least expect it.
A flood of past emotions, still so vivid and alive,
rushes over you like a monstrous wave in the ocean
that sends you off your feet and spits you back out,
salty and heaving for air.
This is living in a dream state,
one you wish you’d wake up from
so you can feel the ground beneath your feet.
This is instability of the body, heart and mind.
This is learning to walk again,
carefully thinking through each step so you don’t send yourself falling.
This is questioning yourself constantly,
wondering if everything you’ve set your heart to is worthwhile,
because, afterall, your mind has been impaired by your drowsiness
of nights staring at a dark ceiling,
not knowing what is holding you from rest.
This is operating on fumes,
slowly disintegrating into just flesh and bone,
losing your focus and strength to your clouded head
and aching heart.
This is worrying so much about what has yet to change,
that you don’t have the conscious to take a look at what is changing,
to see the nothingness that you are slowly evolving to.
This is trembling hands,
this is stuttered words,
this is the inability to unclench your tense fists.
This is independence.
This is holding yourself at gunpoint,
and not knowing which side to surrender.
This is being the enemy
and the survivor.
This is telling yourself, “It’s going to be ok”,
but not believing in the words you use
to try to soothe your rigid body.
You don’t know if you will be ok.
You have lost control over yourself
before you had the chance to try and grab the wheel.
You’ve become so attached to what is to come,
the thought of what has captured you may never cross your mind.
Maybe one day you will learn that there is no use in trying to run from the beast,
for it will shadow your every move.
And maybe one day you’ll learn that to stab it would be a mistake
because you will find yourself with bloody hands and a dying heart.
Copyright © Kaitlyn Fox | Year Posted 2015
(Hello, my sweet friend!)
Speaks in unknown tongues
Nevertheless it will consume
Ask for food,
A sweet drink
The hunger and thirst are real
It's pitchfork aims at my free will
Seeking and freaking through my pages
It's been ages since the impression was gone
Sloppy wording crawl under my hide
Notification triggers my finger and thumb
Bang! The evil one exists
With a second-hand letter
It believes, it should never be forgotten
Numb as Novocaine can be
I watch and interpret the riddles in every line
Living and breathing art,
I'm echoing the same nightmare
How dare, the devil seeks to be fed!
Screaming and remembering
--the demons that linger in its head
Too much to read,
I have major troubles with your disease
Lunacy of the universe
Open Obituary, you are a curse
Like a transparent note from a fatal fax machine
It's a calling, unbearable to describe
Take from me, after I am deceased
Like fire, it burns, cancer in every star
My eye twitch
My soul hurts
I'm not feeling well
Leave me the HEll alone
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015
I imagined this world a far better place
Hunger and sadness removed every trace
The wars had all stopped there was peace on Earth
Joy accompanied every beautiful birth
People all listened when wise men did speak
The bold and the beautiful were equal to the meek
Status was less important than truly being kind
People were not hurtful when they spoke their mind
Strength was measured by the good we would do
We thought of the many and less of the few
Work was a pleasure no longer a grind
By doing what we loved we nourished the mind
We chose here and now we didn't live in the past
Time was less fleeting each moment did last
We enjoyed all the people who were part of each day
There was time for relaxation we learned how to play
From my imagination I learned more as I thought
Things might happen slowly but they can change a lot
The best way to begin is to be a better me
To not think of other people as my enemy
Force has never worked it has led to more hate
What some think is inevitable doesn't need to be fate
You may think me naive yet that's not the case
Fear is the enemy that we need to erase!
Written April 12, 2016
For Dan Kearley's Contest.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016
I wrote a poem for a contest
And it got some great comments
I thought it was one of my best
I felt very confident
Soon the contest was judged, the winning list came out
Victory was not in doubt
I scanned the winners list from the middle down
I thought my poem would have placed
But I soon began to frown
My name wasn't there ....It was as if I wasn't even in the race!
Can't win 'em all I guess
No need to stress
But when I went to my inbox and saw "Congrats on your win"
I thought they made a mistake
So I scanned the winners list once more
Then suddenly I stopped...
I was surprised for sure
My name was the first one on top!
Copyright © Joseph May | Year Posted 2014
Last night I wandered past your total disregard
And walked forlorn
Stark insecurity amplified
Still I walked , my usual forebearance uncomplied
Upon furthermost the distance between us elongated
The sustenance of forgotten stores inside me generated
I was venerated - nay subjugated
Of these morsels congregated
And fed me through those inkblack nights
In dewfall of the quiet
Inside unheard the rebel riots
As my breath became a billion
As my fears that I embraced
Loosed themselves and fearing fled
Melting in the murky bellows
Did I find my standing there...
Naked but for meekness laced
Forgotten was my fear
I needs you dId not anymore
Nor your disregard this doggone day
Not dejected as before
Only sin has me surrounded
And soon encircled dissappears,decays
Unclothed in limped insignificance
Nothing said ...
So still your body lies
Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2017
Mongrels gyrating on the edge of town
This it now- its going down
The chant electric, the doomsday count
It matters not that no one speaks a word
We knew it was coming, but you havent heard
Just know how I loved you , go fly little bird
A mass of hungry hatred flash of glimmering blades
Blood of the martyrs, murder and Hades
Dance of the hyena, foul flinging dung
Clinging our candles only looking up
Feeble little fingers summoning the Light
A promise in our prayers armless in a fight
This is my cry, tell it to the world
From the podiums and parliaments
Dont believe a word
Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2018
I saw Nazis march yesterday
upon the streets of Charlottesville.
And with swastikas on display
crazed members chanted blood will spill.
I saw Satan grinning with pride
at racial slurs shouted in hate.
And bigots standing by his side
help the violence escalate.
I saw torches light up the night
snaking through the black neighborhoods.
And skinheads looking for a fight,
all they were missing were white hoods.
I saw white supremacists proud
of drawing blood and spreading fear.
And a car plow into the crowd
its intentions perfectly clear.
I saw President Trump place blame
on both sides for this killing spree.
And a shocked nation reel in shame
at how callous he seemed to be.
I saw what might be the end of
tolerance and democracy.
For mantras of hate replaced love
with smugness and hypocrisy.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017
A Dylan Thomas State of Mind
It’s precisely 2:45am...the time when
~ if I’ve fallen asleep ~
I always awake to find
Myself drenched in sweat.
I lie here beside my beloved
~ as I have so steadfastly since
16 November 2016 ~
The end of my existence.
I am not talking about
Taking my own life.
I’ve seen, heard, touched, tasted, smelt
I’ve survived too much, felt too much...
I value Howard’s sweet...sweet...
Nurturing soul’s devotion
To keeping me alive these past 40 years
To raise my hand against myself...now.
I AM talking about these things:
Where do we go when we die?
Do I have a soul?
Will I be conscious — at the moment it happens —
That I am drawing my very last breath?
Sometimes, when I awake in the early morn,
Howard is motionless beside me
And I stare at his beautiful face.
Dare I reach out and touch it with one finger?
What if it’s stone cold?
His flesh heavy...dead?
The End of Living.
The End...The End...The End...
Last January I begged for surcease...
For an end to the pain...
An end to the physical torture...
An end to the psychic suffering...
The constant thoughts of:
“Is there a Hell?”
“Will I go there if I take my own life?”
“What does ‘eternity’ mean?”
Now this morning of 19 October 2017
I am thinking...feeling...praying:
God/Goddess/All That Is/The Universe/The Spirit
Make my neglected hated scorned body
Healthy and whole.
So I may live
Do not let me go gentle into that good night.
I am alive now...
And I rage...
I RAGE NOW!
....against the dying of the light.
19 October 2017
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017
He cried for help using a silent cord,
but silent cries always get ignored.
He couldn't remember how life rewards,
and from his eyes the tears then poured.
He ran away from life because he became scared,
but he ran into the wild and stands impaired.
With too much time passed since he last cared,
in this isolation he thinks how better he's faired.
He realised the run from people guided him here,
but he now wishes people were somewhere near.
Stuck still in this spot on his lonesome chair,
now thinking that unsighted decision was unfair.
Supressed anger created this mental cage,
and out of practice his mind won't engage,
without exercise he's to weak to turn the page,
and there are no steps leading upto the stage.
They say a man's got to do what a man's got to do,
but what does a man do when he hasn't got a clue.
When there are no thoughts in his brain to choose,
when he's lost it all and yet there's more to lose.
He's a prisoner to depression and all its dark forces,
cornered with one card to play and it requires endurance,
survive and get lucky or hang in and die of natural causes,
avoiding the actions of suicide are of the most importance.
Sometimes all you can do is survive,
and hope for the day of the changed tide,
sometimes all you can do is survive,
it's a certain death if you move, so just hide.
The weeks pass by with the outlook bleak,
everyday he weakens and feels completely beaten.
The adult with special needs that no curriculum can teach,
so he sinks deeper and deeper into his mind in retreat.
He's alone with only his own thoughts, reality is out of reach,
he dehydrates as he weeps his way through the slaughter,
each tear releases anguish and defeat which haunts him,
he thinks his minds defunct and in need of factory repair.
He wonders why he gives a f**k when there is no reason to care.
Continuously sinking deeper into a reluctant isolation,
only thankful for his loneliness because it hides humiliation.
He stays within his place of hiding because no options appear.
He just keeps hiding where he is, it's safe right here,
but all the while his thinking clarity disappears.
Driven to numbness and a world that feels no fear.
He knows of no pleasure or luxury and cries another tear.
Inside he feels a bubbling up powerful fury,
it comes and goes offering a flicker of curiosity,
within its short lived burst he feels a warmth of bravery,
but then it's supressed by depression, owner of mental slavery.
In alliance with anxiety the result makes him a panic attack liability,
and that instantly retracts social skills and detaches him from society.
The only way to survive all this is to hide in the rocks of a cave,
back to basics, he waits, himself he hates as no one comes to save.
He's scared and angry and he thinks back to how he behaved,
many in his life benefitted from the attention and time he gave.
All the time spent on his selfless actions, that wasn't returned,
and others then forget through distractions, those bridges burned.
He doesn't blame people though, they have to watch their own backs,
all do, it's vital, the key to his revival? Attributes of survival, the comeback.
This revelation brightens his mind, feeds his fury and removes his frightened.
Be brave, only he can save himself, he must stop hiding and fight to the end.
Sometimes all you can do is hide,
Sometimes you just need to survive.
Sometimes thoughts rise up inside,
that's the time to fight and try to thrive.
With thought and bravery he rises upto depression and eyes its dark forces,
this corner he's in makes him dangerous and becomes his great fortress,
he survived the crux and grew wise, still alive but of the most importance
he's acquired ceaseless resources, knowledge, no shortage, but he's cautious.
He has to watch his own back, he has to switch from defend to attack,
he has to be active and predict the perils, pitfalls and traps, no mishaps,
he has to find energy, adrenaline, and fail to feel pain, find his sweet chariot,
every man for himself, a test of character, no more quiet, time to war and riot.
Sometimes all you can do is survive,
and from the dark a new chance will guide
you to instincts that only time provides,
a vibe, the greats refuse to lay down and die.
Just keep living and never give in,
if you do this the enemy can't win,
feel yourself strengthen, feel it within.
Never give in, go into hiding, but again begin.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
Known for miles around
As the Queen of Croissants
She’d perfected her art for years
But at what cost
More physically demanding than you might think
She gave the best years of her youth
Working at a small town bakery
The strain on her hands and body taking their toll
Owners had lucked out and they knew it
She loved her art and would have done it for free
Trying to produce the work of three
Never took a sick day in twenty-five years
Couldn’t have worked harder if the place had been her own
The owners were greedy, looking to save their own hide
Watched her toil while they leisurely went about their day
Went on vacations leaving her the keys
Knowing all too well the place would run smoothly
Heaven forbid she would get a thank you
Or - bite your lip – a bonus
It seems freeloaders are always lucky
They find a giver that they can suck dry while the going is good
Luck or law of attraction?
Submitted in March, 2018
POEM OF THE DAY - March 5, 2018
Copyright © Line Gauthier | Year Posted 2018
The heavy fog slowly lifts in places
Open patches of spring delight and resounds
The look-out crow caws, joyous news abounds
As rooster's crows lands in hollow spaces
The rising sun warms pale skin with graces
Awareness of a stillness settles around
Coo of the dove seems to calm and propounds
Thoughts surface above the calm, one races
Wildlife has no idea of what's ahead
They know not that storms could come and flood nests
Dens, wreck havoc, seal their fate, end life's joy
Humans bounce singing there's nothing to dread
Weak, untested in the fire, growths arrest
One incident will probably destroy
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2018
A soul is but a slave that serves the heart
and flails in presence of true loveliness.
The heart commands, therefore I must impart
this ceaseless craving, yearning for caress.
I did foretell this destined rendezvous
though not foretelling why she came this way.
To answers why or how, I’ll not pursue,
for what I’d sought was “when” would come this day.
She walked inside to shelter from the rain
then raised her eyes to browse the languid room.
She looked at me, then glanced away again,
oh, to see such elegance in bloom.
To be fulfilled leaves nothing to explore
but restless souls, they simply wish to soar.
But restless souls, they simply wish to soar
and so she swanned the room without delay.
I watched her as she prowled the parlor floor
then brush my booth, pause and look my way.
She pursed her lips and asked me for the time,
then stood in hush, awaiting my reply.
But as I tried to speak, as though a mime,
my voice fell mute and words just passed me by.
I caught my breath then looked around the room,
such trepidation left me little choice.
My mind was shrouded with impending doom,
for I was not the master of my voice.
Before those fears could tear my dreams apart,
they found a way to tenderly depart.
They found a way to tenderly depart
though I could not respond to her request.
I held my breath and waited for my heart
to once again start beating in my chest.
And as I coaxed my senses to comply
I found the words that I had planned to say.
But when I went to offer my reply
she turned her head and simply walked away.
I closed my eyes and rummaged for a scheme
to tame the mood and thwart her nonchalance.
But words were lost, for it was all a dream,
and once again, I floundered in response.
My tacit tongue had chosen to explore
those winding paths that bind forevermore.
Those winding paths that bind forevermore
are bare essentials to the paradigm
that "love shall only grow if each therefore,
evolves in life, together, over time."
I look upon our love with this design.
It strengthens my resolve to win the day.
And soon, our hearts and souls shall intertwine,
for nothing now is standing in my way.
But as I sat and squandered morning’s light,
inside the door, a gentleman appeared.
She turned to him, and in a passing flight,
the essence of her light had disappeared.
Her radiance had faded to obscure.
Some hearts align; one never can be sure.
Some hearts align, one never can be sure.
and so her love is but a memory.
My jaded dreams, now muddled and obscure,
in consequence, were never meant to be.
I’ll search no more for splendor in the morn
and yield my days to solitude’s retreat.
I’ll not profess disparagement nor scorn
and thus negate the anguish of defeat.
No unrequited love will I let taunt
the tendrils of imaginary whim.
For I’ll recall the memories that daunt,
reminding me when morning’s light fell dim.
For such a fool as I, there is no cure,
no sovereign love is destined to endure.
No sovereign love is destined to endure.
As recompense, I’ll let my pain atone.
These vain endeavors shall not reoccur
for I will spend my empty days alone.
I’ve found to place to charm the painter’s eye;
this sidewalk berth along the corridor.
For now, it’s on my canvas I'll supply
impressions of the subjects I adore.
But wait, I sense an essence o’er this place
and feel a shadow break the morning sun.
And she walks by; such arrogance and grace!
Oh, could it be...that this may be the one?
Once more the morning sun has left me blind
as scented air aroused the misty mind.
As scented air aroused the misty mind
illusions start to mingle in the brain.
Within this haze appears a light divine
though in a world of dreams ‘tis all in vain.
One timely gaze, though fates still yield to chance,
a heart surrenders love too willfully.
In truth, a soul prefers a tryst romance,
a feeble heart seeks vain fidelity.
A soul is but a slave that serves the heart,
but restless souls…they simply wish to soar.
They’ve found a way to tenderly depart
those winding paths that bind forevermore.
Some hearts align, one never can be sure;
no sovereign love is destined to endure.
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2018
"With Angels Wings"
The whispering winds, a song they sing
A song of sorrow and of a heart so big
Your love reaches as far as the eye can see
I believe in dreams because in my heart, you beat
Just as a gentle breeze shimmers every leaf
Your love, in every heart, plants a seed
Elegance, love and hope is what grows beneath
And this is your gift to us....
For safe keeping.
So...if you ever wonder why heaven sings
It's because now you fly...
With Angels Wings
Copyright © Rob Schulteis | Year Posted 2014
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
She looks out the window and sees him in the distance.
So much fear inside leaves no room for resistance.
If she ran right now she might be able to get away.
With every broken rib she's nothing more than a cliche.
She was once a strong woman, and could stand on her own.
Now he's broken her will and more than one bone.
Run, run, run her mind screams in shear terror.
She unlocks the door without so much as a prayer.
Maybe this time will be different and he won't be mad.
Somehow she has to tell him he's about to be a dad.
She should have taken that card and called the hot line.
Her whole world changed as soon as she got the plus sign.
If she can make it thru the night she'll pack up and leave.
Somewhere deep inside she knows that's only make believe.
She's his till the end, come hell or high water.
There's nothing anyone can do about the oncoming slaughter.
The National Domestic Violence
Hot Line 1-800-799-7233
Copyright © Scott Williams | Year Posted 2016
Broken In Me Reigns
There is a place from deep within
where I hide my hearts pains.
A darkened room off by itself
where the broken in me reigns.
The hinges all rusted in place
where seldom is love spoken.
Still the hurts they come and go
the windows are all broken.
On rainy days it seems set free
those memories all roam.
Then late at night again alone
it seems they all come home.
There were times much younger then
I couldn't stop them but I'd try.
Older now and wiser too
I hang my head and cry.
For you can't let go of certain things
that life has put you through.
It's just no use to let go
when it's holding on to you.
So if you see I've lost my smile
tears are what remains.
It's just I've slipped off by myself
where the broken in me reigns.
Edwin C Hofert
Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015
Falling asleep to illogical thoughts.
Seeing red or nothing but spots.
Heart racing toward the finish line.
Can't seem to catch that breath of mine.
A whooshing roar inside my head.
Sometimes wishing I was dead.
Treating symptoms not disease.
Praying hard while on my knees.
Listening to the same song a thousand times.
Putting my feelings down in rhymes.
Feeling lost and out of place.
Floating untethered through outerspace.
Crack a smile and blink back tears.
Trying to cope with irrational fears.
Not being able to trust my thoughts.
My stomach twisted up in knots.
Always in survival mode.
On the brink of overload.
in every room...
trying to care...
Then I stop indulging and reel it in.
Calmly try to slow my spin.
Can't afford to lose my cool,
and be like every other fool.
So I shake it off and bite my lip.
Then tell myself to get a grip.
Copyright © Rebecca Young | Year Posted 2017
They always tell you, you are strong,
Time and again.
While you know they are dead wrong,
Through your pain.
You never had a decent choice,
Had to disappear.
No free will, no life, no voice,
Just hurt and fear.
You never knew the tiger in you,
He slept too long.
Until he roared you had no clue
You became so strong.
With searing rage you flee the cage,
You free your mind,
And let despair turn into rage,
And then you find
There is a world outside that hell
For you to roam.
Turn into stories you can tell,
You can go home.
They used to tell you, you are strong,
Time and again.
And now you know they were not wrong...
You beat your pain.
January 28, 2017
© Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
As biology goes, I'm surviving,
a few aches and pains and a cough
and I check every morning when in the bathroom
to see if my bits have dropped off.
Now, father time knows where I'm living
and likes to make regular calls
which I know by the strands of my hair on the bedding
that have come from my head and my nose.
(Yes, I know what that last line should be, but it's a family website)
The condition called male pattern baldness
is feared by men everywhere
and even I've tried all of the creams and the potions
to try and save my bit of hair
A comb-over like Donald Trump has,
using all of the growth that remains
was still not enough to stop that awful tapping
from every time that it rains.
I even tried growing my eyebrows
as long as I possibly could
to comb them straight upwards and over the top
but that didn't look any good.
A hair loss clinic was suggested
so I phoned them and gave my details,
but I bought myself one or two different fedoras
quite simply in case all else fails.
Then the hair loss clinic gave me an update
which I wasn't expecting so soon,
they'd found my lost hair on a Camel's backside
in a market just outside Khartoum.
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2016
What’s In The Urn
Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?
Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose
A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison
In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know
With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms
I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later
There must be a plot of ground outside
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest
Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned
I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?
Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing
Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
Near the cliff's edge he stood
poised and composed. Wind swept dust
whirling ozone mingling thyme,
tickling his half-clogged nose.
gliding, soaring, diving,
harbingers of electric storms.
A mistral wind blew cold and cruel
black clouds formed low, forbidding.
Lazy lizards scuttled for refuge
Sparrows hid in lowly carobs
Or flew into the stately pines.
The wind spoke suddenly.
Gusts whispering dread.
An urge, a whisper, an invitation
echoing sirens of old:
"Be free, fly, liberate yourself."
Below, the sea in turmoil,
no fishing boats in sight.
No one but he dared face the storm,
the storm he feared
was inside his tattered soul,
a sea of torment.
The birds and creatures of the wild
found a haven, but he had none,
no solutions to the inner storm,
except to dive and join the sirens,
in the perilous seas below.
written 12 September 2007
Many people died here. It is a real picture of Dingli Cliffs in Malta.
I never dare to go near the edge.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2015