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.
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 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.
The houses rotted,
The roads cracked and slowly eroded,
Power lines toppled,
And trees retook the place of grass.
Lives had finished,
Completed, but never replaced,
Leaving everything behind
For the mildew and quiet to claim.
Everyone had gone,
And they left a fragmented remembrance,
The ruins of excess
And poverty adapted into shadow palaces.
When everyone goes
I only hope there will be ghosts,
So someone could see
The beautiful remains of our failures.
The arguments died,
All sides are eventually silenced.
Grief lost her way
Without any survivors to guide her.
Indecisions without resolve,
Like half-empty beds and unfinished poems
Revert back to objects
Removed from anxiety and desire.
Landscapes of thought
Retaining echos without sound.
When everything falls
I hope to see what happens then.
To see how unknowable
Our intentions and dreams become.