Featured

Weak And Starving

I know you’re starving

Your supply of love has withered

And you’re craving for affection

But pretending to be indifferent.

I know you’re scared

Who could blame you if they knew

After all that you’ve been through

Asking for love would seem precarious.

I know you’re hiding

Wearing a mask to protect yourself

Concealing your needs from the vultures

And projecting your strongest face.

I know you’re tired

Exhausted from playing these games

Hardening and freezing your heart

As it begs to open up and bleed.

You’ve learned how easily a tender heart can wound,

How anyone that loves you knows just where you’re weak.

People forcing people to shelter their desires,

Preying on each other for that taste of love we seek.

I know how well you’re guarded, I recognize the signs.

I know the risks involved with trying to score some love.

I know we’re on alert for any weakness in another,

Waiting for our chance to steal away some of that drug.

I understand, I see you, and I know we’re all afraid.

I really need a taste myself before I fade away.

If we could call a truce, set our fears and worries free,

I’ll lick all of your wounds if you’ll do the same for me.

 

Snippet Of A Conversation

“Confront the facts!

You’ve hated yourself,

You’ve lived a lie!

You’re not what you present!”

 

“Shut up.

All persona is presentation,

It’s all a lie anyway

So what does it matter?”

 

“Represent someone else

And hide from what you really feel.

Is this what you really want,

Miss Freedom of Expression?”

 

“I’ll express what I choose.

My secrets are my own,

And does anyone really care

What I feel inside?”

 

“What does it matter

If anyone gives a damn?

What satisfactions comes

From dishonest expression?”

 

I Found Myself Buried

I was naked, around twilight,

Covered in dirt and leaves

Having been buried alive,

By life buried.

A crawling mass of moist earth

Composed of dismembered deaths,

Colonies of feeding decomposers,

And my own fragile ego.

I must have sunk

From grace down to dirt

And been planted face-down,

Neglected and self-misused.

I suppose I slept

Because I dreamed vividly

In colors more vibrant and varying

Than I ever felt before.

I’d visited myself,

Seen the spectrum of my being

Like so many blends of fantasy and memory

Shifting perpetually within.

Only after waking

I recognize the implication

Of finding myself alive,

Head-first buried in a hole.

 

 

Please, Sing Sadly

To me, sad fantasy

Feels better than almost anything.

I’m aware, sensitive,

Permeated by waves of mood.

Everything else

Is a distraction of hope.

Even the desires

That I pine for could do no more

Than teardrop chords

Dancing prettily down your face.

 

Most of us

Want affection in safe hands.

So do I,

But, they just never feel safe enough.

I’m most alright

When I’m thoughtful and alone,

And never more alive

Than listening to you sing sad songs.

Divinely Strange Comfort

These clouds, this wind,

My habits and mood swings,

Cigarettes and coffee,

Half-finished conversations,

Guarded hearts, tender connections,

Horror movies, memories,

Kissing in your parent’s basement.

October, yes another,

Let’s do nothing in October

But stay warm and witness death.

Nature wants to sleep.

I’m cold, but you’re warm.

Nevermind the ghosts,

They make the air more profound.

Encroaching sleep,

A pleasant sensation,

No better way to fall

In this moment.

Cold is coming

To swallow us up again.

This quiet anticipation

Makes a comfort, divinely strange.

Knowing Fear

Fear, Ignorance Content.
A flower, beautiful, blind, deaf, and dumb
Plucked unaware its demise was planned.

Like a friendship that ended before it began
Because we didn’t comprehend how badly we’d been deluded.
No way of knowing, no one to tell us, we were still too inhibited
With the one we’re most comfortable with.

Fear, knowledge without empathy.
A machine that knows your wants, needs, and secrets
But doesn’t give a damn for you.

Like a parental figure that knows just enough
To push where you’re weak, but not enough to empower growth or happiness.
Prodding, pushing, punishing for the sake of a predetermined standard,
A program written unconcerned with your use.

Fear, unknowable reality.
Lost in a desolate landscape without borders,
Shelter, landmarks, or escape.

Taken from home, still a child, thrown into another family’s plans
With all expectation and no direction.
A neurological disorder that distorts human interaction
Into a perpetually lonesome experience.

Fear, the unknowable self.
Awake without memory in a dark,
Empty, and confined space.

I ask myself who I am, how I feel, what I want,
Or what I should do to make life worth living.
Am I a man or a woman? Am I depressed?
Should I try to make friends and risk another uncomfortable, dysfunctional experience?

Fear, the palpable mystery.
The feeling of heartbeats, shakes,
Ice on the neck, and other irrefutable motions.

I know wherever I go, whoever I’m with, whatever the situation,
Life will have evermore chances to overwhelm my senses.
I don’t fight, I don’t run, I surrender.
I feel afraid because I’ll never escape it, and I don’t need to.
I’m afraid because I still believe my life matters.
Knowing that, fear becomes me
As breath, laughter, and love.

Touch

Touch, a spectrum,

Pleasure, peace, and affliction.

Too little or too much

Distorts the stimulation,

Turning tenderness cold

And neglect burning hot.

 

To fear touch,

To know my flesh can feel.

Disassemble itself lasciviously,

Dismember itself in pain,

Falter, fall apart,

Or give way to forced entry.

 

It never stops,

Permeating everything,

Inside, around, over-top.

Sinking into puddles,

Poring down my chest,

From fingertips to drawing breath.

 

Telling Life Like Stories

My story is my self-love,

Framing my existence against odds and fate.

I’ve never not been telling myself

How I relate to everything I love.

Sometimes everything means nothing

Logic draws an empty shape

A void of anxiety or dread,

The overwhelming potential of a blank page.

In confrontation with this,

My beating heart vs the blind night,

I tell the tale of “I” and “Us”

Displacing emptiness with narrative form.

The sharpened edge of reality fades,

Never abating, but making space for creation.

I draw meaning out of thin air

And weave it as I’m best able.

I exist, therefore I tell a story.

I value truth and beauty because I listen.

Every fleeting moment is somewhere

Between a comedy, tragedy, and romance,

But even the finest prose,

Is little more than painted dust,

Fractals to be discarded and neglected,

Swallowed whole by eternity.

It’s an absurd story,

Sound and fury told by an idiot,

The dearest fantasy of my heart

Like late autumn leaves.

Absurdity, my idol,

Language of passions and pleasures,

Defying inevitable complexity

To take rapture in the fantastical.

Laugh at my solemnity,

Existence makes us lunatics,

The world is a journal for mad ramblings,

And it’s a story to be loved.

 

By Sanya Elswyth Walma.

Visit my Patreon to help me keep creating and for exclusive poetry and other writings.