Life Like Words

Maybe the world is a game.

If it is, then death is just the goalpost.

The timer. The only real rule.

If it is, then dying is our final score.

Working may be desperate.

Wealth or happiness may make a difference.

We all subsist strategically,

Gaining or lacking in different amounts.

Totality pressures us

To decide which pursuits prove worthy

Of conscious individuality

While it’s ours to compare and contrast.

It’s just a poem.

Writing, but we know it’s a burden.

Words are ours to choose

Until space confines us to a stop.

 

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.

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