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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.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

A Message For My WordPress Followers

If you’re reading this, I’m sure you know how much it means to know that someone appreciates what you do. Even if it’s a simple ‘like’ now and again, the fact that someone cares enough to do so, and maybe even relates to what you’re saying, is precious.

I’m writing this because my experience with you all on WordPress has been a wonderful one. It’s fulfilling to see my writing acknowledged and even appreciated for what it is. When people respond to something you made, it gratifies you in a way that isn’t quite comparable to anything else I’m aware of. It’s allowed me to justify what I do, given me the confidence to continue, and inspired me to pursue my craft even further.

To that end, I’ve created a patreon page in hopes of finding enough support to spend more time with my creative writing. I’m not expecting anything, but it would help me immensely to pursue my goals, create new things, and connect with you all a little more. It’s a new idea to me, so I’m still figuring things out and open to suggestions, but if anyone cares to join me I’ll be appreciative beyond words. I’m offering exclusive content to all patrons, and handwritten original poems for mid to high tiers.

Again, thank you for being here with me. I’ll still be publishing here regularly, but if you care to support my work on a higher level it would mean the world.

-Sanya E. Walma

A Modern Rumination

When I discarded my religion,
I found a world that I’d been missing
Already in motion
Without my conscious participation.
Simultaneously, I couldn’t help noticing
The blandness of modern humans
Chasing superficial pleasures
As though nothing else exists.
The abandonment of false purpose
Both liberates and destroys,
A hollow heart hurts to carry
But has capacity to be filled.
Values like certainty and purity
Are irreplaceable once they’re gone,
Vitality and wisdom
Filling in to hold their shape.
There’s a whole horizon to fall into,
An endless void of discordance
To construct, reflect, and internalize,
A perpetual stream of absurd meanings.
There’s no clear answer,
No guarantee of another life,
No genuine good or evil,
But there are endless things to analyze.

What Carries Over

Sometimes I feel better when I imagine my own conscious thought is all that exists.
The feeling of being a disembodied psyche in friction-less space,
Emptied of all but the most critical pieces of my identity
And reassembling my complexities into a more beautiful shape.
As many times as I’ve done this,
There are thoughts and patterns that persist through me,
Some I’ve cherished, others I’ve hated,
And some I couldn’t understand or even properly explain.
There are pieces that never seem to come unstuck,
Fears, attachments, and my deepest memories.
There are images and vague connections I retain,
Like pen-strokes which remain even after they’re scribbled over.
A vague, off-beat rhythm seems to drive my actions,
Unfocused or out of sync with the environment I’m in,
Curiosity, obsession, and paranoia distort my tempo,
Playing my own tune, in spite of what drums beat around me.
I’m liable to fall carelessly into the beautiful or intriguing.
My heart snaps alert, when a note, by happenstance, complements my own.
There are ideas, perceptions, and sequences of thought
That feel more like hell and like home than any real place.
Whatever I do or imagine myself to be,
There are elements of myself that remain true.
Burdens I carry, gifts likewise treasured,
And I expect they’ll remain until my mind is permanently changed.

I Called Myself Prisoner

I still imagine myself chained to the wall of some dark place,
Wanting to scream myself sore.
I carry that image even in my calmest moments,
Knowing it always has the potential to surface.
It’s not an image I invented,
It’s something I impulsively conceived.
I’m trained to see everyone as a treat,
Even the most well-meaning person could uncover me,
Force me to feel things I’d forced down
And expose my shameful needs without warning.
I can’t afford to be a nearly six-foot male,
Dressed in all black, crying in front of others
For the sake of my own self-pity
And consistent self-neglect.
I can’t afford to open myself up
To anymore ridicule and scrutiny
Over factors I can’t explain, or even understand,
Even though I feel them potently.
There’s just something unbearably wretched
About having your own issues neglected
Or treated like a waste of time
Simply because you can’t express them convincingly.
And worse, being perceived as melodramatic,
Stubborn, over sensitive, or seeking attention
Or pitied in the wrong way, pitied from superficial superiority
As though you’re clearly missing the point.
I live with that image in my head,
Chained and shrieking in a cold, dark place,
And it isn’t just one thing, it’s a host of repressed issues,
All compounded into an overwhelming reason to stay down,
But it’s killing me,
It’s literally destroying my capacity to feel good.
I’m in a precarious state,
Feeling my way blindly out of the dark,
Allowing myself to be seen in short bursts
So I don’t feel so encased.
All the old fears follow me,
My doubts and trepidations,
My internalized images and insecurities
And my methods of undermining them.
Fuck being self-contained.
Fuck holding back for other’s sake,
Fuck feeling confident about other people’s problems
Like you’re above such things.
I’m in a precarious state,
In that, I feel like letting myself go regardless who’s in the way.
I’ve become adept at being distant,
At shrouding my turbulence so thoroughly
You wouldn’t even suspect
I was witholding anything significant.
I’m still actively withdrawn,
It’s a strength I’ve come to cherish,
And I don’t know I’ll ever open up
Enough to make up for what I’ve lost,
But I’ve had enough pretending,
And choking down emotion just to feel safe.
I’m still chained up somewhere dark,
But I’m past pretending it’s nothing.

To Humans

I write despite my overdue silence,
In light of my grudges and slights,
To enlighten the thoughts and emotions
I’ve reserved for my own contemplation.
Having distanced myself so thoroughly
I’ll admit my lack of comprehension
In matters I’ve never engaged in
Or only watched from my privileged shelter,
But even when I detested you,
Counting myself among your kind,
I couldn’t help empathizing
With the burdens you’re seizing under.
It’s easy to criticize your failures,
As I’m sure there will be more,
And judge you in harshest terms
For the cruelty and neglect
You imbibe in endless cycles.
I’ve wanted too much from you,
Expected things that seem trivial,
Like a respect for shared existence
And the universality of feelings.
You break hearts too easily,
And I know they can be brittle,
But I could never quite accept
Your ugly side with ease.
Your shallowness and petty conflicts
Routinely, it seems, betray innocence
So the gentle moments you all enjoy
Are wasted for inane reasons.
You neglected me as so many others,
But I know I’m not superior.
I’ve shared your burdens
And your entitled sense of indulgence,
Took things because I wanted them
And disfigured what you thought precious.
I’ve tasted the light of hate,
The bittersweetness of callus violence
Against myself and others,
And I’ve made my justifications.
As much as I’ve despised you,
Forsook your feelings in light of mine,
I never lost that vague connection
With our sublimely tragic condition.
At your best, you make me love you,
Creating your projects of passion,
Embodying your best ideals,
Making fantasy almost tangible
And creating art from your pain.
I want to love you every second,
To comfort and be comforted,
Inspire new ideas
And converse about our tragic past.
I need to feel something better,
And I know you do as well.
For our sake,
I hope you can save yourself
From the overbearing nightmare
You’re still busily creating.
I can’t hate you any longer,
But I cannot help hate your stupidity,
Or the dismissive simplifications
You project on everything you see.
Like an addict without hope,
Burning bridges just to feed
That passive will to power
Or to distance insecurities.
You could be something beautiful,
But it’s hard to picture you
Facing up to your flaws
In any meaningful way.
You could bury yourself
Alongside your egotism,
Proudly burning us to ruin
To say you died without mistakes.
If no choice is made
We could end ourselves swiftly
Without ever really perceiving
Our consciousness in its true light.
There’d be no one to tell us
We didn’t learn from our imperfections,
And the other forms of life
Wouldn’t miss us for a day.
We’ll be what we will be,
Our beautiful tragedy,
If that’s the way you want it
I’ll be here to see it pass,
But I’ll always remember,
And I’ll probably regret
The possibilities we lost
And the parts of you that I respected.