Trinkets

We belong

Like miscellaneous trinkets tossed

Into an unlabeled jar.

Without a splendid wrapping,

We search out our commonalities and raise them

As a standard to be adored.

Screaming in unison

We demand our due affection

From behind the congealed lace of neglected projections.

For our beauty’s recognition

We chose to betray the odds and ends

Whose identities unveiled our jar’s lack of meaning.

 

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Psychalgia Exhumed: A Poetry Book

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.

Sensitivity To Warmth

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.

Love Like Introspection

Could I ever be loved as completely

As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?

 

Mortality and eternity,

Subjects so situated in time

That occupy my emptiness

The way I wish I was admired.

 

Could I fill your mind

And terrify your sense of being

In such a way as to change

The reality of your inner quiet?

 

People are like night skies,

Shifting their position and meaning,

So when you gaze at me

I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.

 

We are mysterious and complicated things,

Too important for casual recognition,

And if I’m ever to be loved again

It must be worth our fullest attention.

Soul Shaper

If I could manipulate my own soul

I would become so many other things;

A character in my favorite books,

A God of my imagined mythos,

An active observer of human history,

An Angel of guidance and/or death,

A spirit floating through endless space,

A designer of perpetual dramas,

A stranger in the realm of dreams,

A composer of symphonies of light,

A voyager through heaven and hell,

A state of being beyond space and time,

An immortal Goddess ruling empires,

And a mortal shell that made peace with death.

If I could manipulate the reality of my existence,

Would the meaning of anything really change?

 

 

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.

 

A Poetry Poem

I wish I could express

In speech as I do in writing

How much I feel about you,

How heavily I care,

How deeply you affect me,

And everything that means.

Mind to mind,

Or empathy to recognition,

In terms of verbal exchange

Is apt to be uncomfortable.

You can read my poems

And feel me more fully

Than you ever could’ve felt me

Face-to-face.

Extrordinary circumstances

Might expose our true emotions,

But the mundanity of self-consciousness

Prevents a simple telling.

I can try,

And occasionally do well,

But I’ve little hope of equaling

The context of the written word.

I love you.

Story Tellers

Watching words will read you,

Willingly or not. As it were,

We’re read as readers.

Eyes watching eyes see

Watching ourselves on T.V.

A subversive narrative is only

Narrative not yet subverted.

All writing is fiction as

All perceptions are hollow.

Naked words reveal nothing.

 

One thought fills immensity,

Well, it may as well,

As immeasurably limited is the Id,

The psyche soundly snug

In conceptual bliss.

Emptiness laughs to see

Loneliness subverted by such

Rationalized madness and

Imaginative beliefs.

Nature clings to anything,

Latching onto whatever’s present,

Precarious as it might be,

Only hoping to survive.

People pretend their whole lives,

Acting, dressing, watching, and telling.

At ease with their lies,

If at least it makes a good story.