I want to brew a cup of tea
And let it go cold,
Forgetting it amid our busy hands
And lips consoling one another.
The rain spatter on the window
Being the only sound
To accompany our growing hunger
In the darkness of our room.
Lighting flashes throw light
In our eyes and against our bodies
As thunder breaks
Like the sudden quiver of a pleasant touch.
The storm pummels on and on,
And we’re drawing each other out
Until we’ve consumed every drop
And we drown into sleep, solemnly spent.
We put our heads together,
Hands to shoulders and thought to thought.
We broke ourselves open
And the weight of our anxieties was forgotten.
There, in a dark room,
We circled around a single candle.
There were no tears,
But the release was potent as heavy sobs.
A brief euphoria
Shared between joined hands in confinement.
Woken from our obsessive woes.
When the weight of a thousand deaths
Becomes clearer to you,
It reveals how narrowly we think
Of our life’s disposition.
The film-like determinist bewichment of
Upsets and dissipates like snuffed flames
At nature’s assertion.
Travelers return from their dreams
To waking isolation
And open their eyes to an absurd reality
If only for a few moments.
With respect to life and death,
And the consciousnesses thereof,
Look into the mouth of darkness
We’re apart of.
Disease, it must be said,
May be more human than some humans.
That our entirety can be so fragile
Is our consistent condition.
When we remember our narratives
Are ours and ours alone,
The one we share demands consent
To have our comforts overrode.
In the busy days of Death,
What comes will prove our honesty,
And our actions will project
Our real characters into history.
Considering who and what we are,
The choices we’ve elected to embody,
What follows is the shadow of ourselves
And our inherited responsibility.
Impositions of misfortune
Are the most substantial opportunity
To engage with life’s true quality,
And for me to say I love you.
Hello everyone. My poem “The Girl On The Floor” was recently published in the first issue of Necro Magazine. The theme of this issue is “Death.” There’s a lot of unique and interesting work in here from all kinds of artists. Check it out below.
A ghost behind the moon
Dulcetly laments the passage of time,
Every stroke of luck or doom,
Fate and death imbued in lullaby.
Sometimes it’s all I want to listen to
A song sadder and more beautiful than you
As beautiful as you are in dysfunctional splendor
Something even worse feels so much better.
Versus of cruelty and tragedy
Burning softly beneath unsettled feelings.
Distant narratives of epic abstraction
Quieting the immediate vacuity of complacency.
Amelia took a breath &
Exhaled a gold and silver mist.
The walls and ceiling gazed down
At her form curled up on the floor.
Flowers in a nearby vase turned toward her,
And the guitar in the corner looked as well.
She drew back sharply &
Blew deliberately without making wishes.
Waking one’s possessions can be dangerous,
Resulting often in unwanted attention &
Giving life can have ugly consequences,
Especially in things so tied to one’s distinctions.
In a whisper she expressed
Only the slightest wish for company.
How enjoyable would it be
To share her daydreams with everything she had,
Brought to life enough
To laugh and understand the girl they’re seeing?
What makes us happy?
Well, what gets us through the day?
Compliments and memes,
Dreaming for the future
And sleeping next to someone sweet?
And what makes it work?
What makes the meaning maker?
Money and jobs,
Resources and transactions,
And the endless need for labor?
What does it mean?
Weren’t we making it last verse?
Something that we earn,
Something we’re still learning,
A fantasy or a needed story,
A reason to keep it going
And to believe we have worth.
They cross and collide,
Meanings, means, and distractions.
Moving more apart
And then again together,
More despair and satisfaction.
Movement made momentous by the mind,
Our language for a moment’s passion?
A collection of 20 poems by Sanya E Walma.
Sometimes our potential for growth and our ability to understand ourselves is buried beneath internalized fears and repressed feelings.
Untying the mental knots that distort our true selves requires the willingness to embrace our most intimate anxieties.
This collection of poetry is based on unearthing innermost troubles, finding beauty behind emotional disorder, and learning to express oneself honestly.
Download here as a PDF.
Or order as a paperback from Barnes & Noble or Amazon.
I’m tired of being Imoveably cold
But Warmth doesn’t seem to care for me.
He prefers hearts easier to reach
Over those guarded under lock and key.
Real invigoration is so infrequent
It melts me beyond the use of coherent thought.
It finds me at my most relaxed
And shocks my senses back to full alert.
A warning; If Warmth can reach you,
So can all sorts of volatile expressions.
Good intentions can’t diminish
The fragility of your intimate dimensions.
Born to grave sensitivity
I easily shudder in the light of friendship,
And comfort myself solely
In the snowy luminance of reflection.
Idealism and romance raised me to care,
But authority raised me to be compliant and indifferent.
What forces us to conform and behave
Breaks our hearts and deadens our empathetic sentiments.
When you choose to live for love,
You’re at odds with all those who will take whatever you can give.
The Ideas you cherish like equality and justice
Only matter to them as weapons to be selectively implemented.
We take an unequal share of the world’s pain.
You can carry it as your own or you can choose to inflict it.
But the totality of human suffering
Rarely moves individuals as much as all the pursuit of satisfaction.
To us, who’re ruled by those who don’t love one another,
You’re more an idea or a number than anything like what we’d call “a life.”
You can’t lie when you’re reduced to an integer,
But you can’t assert yourself as anything worth cherishing either.