I’d learned to love the walls
you built
I covered them in poetry,
and made a home
of the wallpaper.
I splattered my thoughts
for anyone to read,
and made art
out of imprisonment.
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This poem is written in that space
floating away from sobriety
coming down from the high
of talking to my escape
and returning to the beast
that’s tried to drive me away.
Depression is the wedge
trying to get between me
and the only one strong enough
to push back my demons
when they outweigh
even the toughest parts of me.
This poem is written in that space
between hello and goodbye
when I’m struggling to exist
without you next to me.
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I want to break the binds,
and reject the embrace
I’m stuck in.
I want to sever the knots
in the stitches holding
the hurt inside my head.
I want to scream in the silence
and shatter the glass cage
keeping the numbing ice
pressed against my skin,
when all I need
is the warmth
of gentle fingertips
and the tenderness
of delicately spoken promises.
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A free heart knows
how it feels to be held,
caressed by gentle hands
who’s only intentions are to nurture
and show how it feels to sing.
A caged heart knows
how it feels to pump
a thousand miles
to the sound of its hurt.
A free heart hears
the sound of silence
and knows its calmness
is not a threat to its health.
A caged heart screams,
drum kits breaking
in the anxious pounding
of the rib-cage bars
holding it in its cell.
The caged heart beats
because it knows the tales
of what could be
if it were to be freed.
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Her body was burned by the fire-breathers
coughing flames onto her skin
with every word telling her why
the answers will always be isolation.
She picks through her ruins,
piecing together
mismatched chunks of metal
that survived the heat
she was forced to live inside.
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She understands the crushing weight
of loneliness holding her lungs in a
vise, making her question whether
she’d ever remember how it feels to
breathe.
She understands the smell of skin
singed by the hands of what should
be, burning holes in what can’t live
up to expectations.
She understands the desire to scream
underwater while being silence by the
drain.
And she understands no one else will
ever understand how it feels to drown
in a drought.
Be sure to check out the inspiration of this poem from The Awkward Bear Writes.
My head is crowded,
but I’ve never felt so alone,
sleeping in the Lion’s den,
trying to build myself a home.
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Do you think a shadow feels lonely
always being cast off
with no(body) to call home?
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, now available on amazon.
This started as a short story I was going to write, and it turned into this poetic piece.
There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It never has to feel alone with the intimacy the banks bring it, offering their hands for the gentle strokes of the push-pull flow of the water. The wind nudges the shyness from its grasp, and the river makes friends with the fish, making homes in the darkest sections of the riverbed. A lonely fern stretches its skinny fingers for a chance to taste all that the stream provides, not quite reaching what it longs for. There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It mesmerizes everything within its view, unaware of the lonely fern among the trees, just out of reach. The stream, devoid of physical flaws, only inciting them in the ones it overlooks. On starry nights, the moon acts as a spotlight, illuminating the ridges in the gentle waves, furthering the tease on the poor, lonely fern, that yearns for the river’s embrace.
When my insides grew tired of living in a body so broken,
I was lucky enough to have loneliness there, holding my
hair back and telling me it was okay to lay my contents
out for security to inspect. That it is okay to show him
what my insecurities are made of. That we are in this
together. I tell him I am alone and he tells me no. That
he is a friend that refuses to leave. I tell him I am sick,
and he tells me no. That if I were sick, that would make
him a virus. I tell him yes. That he is bacteria, spreading
an illness through me with his futile reassurance.
Marysa Writes 