She Is

she is the yes girl
the cleans up the mess girl
the yearns for your caress girl
messy on the inside

she is the aim to please you girl
the helps you when you’re blue girl
the won’t quit till she’s through girl
screaming on the inside

she is the peace keeping girl
the up when you’re sleeping girl
the mind always leaping girl
exhausted on the inside

she is the wants a hug girl
the needs you like a drug girl
the soul full of love girl
desperate on the inside

she is the wants to feel like yours girl
the heart for you pours girl
the wants to give you more girl
trying on the inside

-image via Pinterest

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Caged

oh, how I wish I could fly,
grasp the courage just below this surface
and spread these vernixed wings,
but here I stand,
stuck,
self-contained –
a caged bird,
pulling out my own feathers

-image via Pixabay

Deafening

she tried to bury the chaos under the hundredweight of mundane,
but the echo chamber it left behind was deafening –
it would not go unheard,
it’s persistence a carnivorous force inside her,
and no matter how busy she made herself,
it ate away,
the burying leaving her but a shell
of who she could have been

Empty

she had always felt different,
separate,
other,
scalene in a world of equilateral

no matter how close she got,
there was always distance,
a gap unable to be filled,
an aloneness that permeated every relationship,
leaving her empty

and that emptiness was a bullet
she could never dislodge

-art by Maryam Savoji via Pinterest

Static

There’s no music in these headphones,
No rhythmic beat a’playin’,
There’s no cool lyrics to sing to,
For dancin’ or hip swayin’

There’s no music in these headphones,
No recharging chord,
There’s no lullaby for comfort,
When times get really hard

There’s no music in these headphones,
There’s no power supply,
There’s nothing but the static,
And the tears that have run dry

-image via Pixabay; written and re-posted as part of Mental Health Awareness Month to help bring awareness to the realities of depression

Binge

in so many crevices,
in drawers and cabinets and waste paper baskets,
buried,
beneath, beneath,
lies wrappered shrapnel,
hidden,
yet, gnawing, gnawing,
from the inside out,
a silvery, crinkled breadcrumb graveyard of words,
unspoken,
a secret swallow for every sinful syllable,
a cloaked choke on every vile vowel,
gnarled nouns stuck somewhere between my stomach and my mouth,
and there’s just no relief

sneaking behind closed doors and around corners,
furiously famished,
I binge and cringe on chocolate barbs,
on sacks of salty sinew,
slicing and chewing at the operatic clash,
at the rising, rising of the pitiful loathe,
a boiling bile in the pit of my being

a flood,
unuttered,
yet, refusing to be unheard

-image via Pinterest, by artist Lee Price

Wood

her heart was hand hewn,
a butchered block of aged wood –
heavy,
weathered,
cracked and dry

it no longer beat;
it only pained her,
its weight a foggy barrier,
keeping distance or closing in –
she wasn’t sure which

all she knew was that it hurt,
its splinters scraping against its walls,
gnashing at the soft tissue,
tearing through

and flooding her chest with dust

-image via Pixabay

Dare

I dare to close my eyes,
to be still and content,
despite the blackness,
threatening ascent,
almost instantaneously,
feeling rapid descent,
but it’s not black,
where was I sent?
it’s all so bold,
and lines are bent,
in technicolor,
with vivid accent,
non-linear and sharp,
the not-shapes torment,
rippling hues spinning,
a vortex of dissent,
hands and fingers paw at me,
a sea of malcontent,
this sensory kaleidoscope,
I’m overwhelmed, spent,
rapid breath in all blues,
but it’s stuck like cement,
I can’t feel my skin,
is this going to relent?
am I still sleeping?
where have I went?
if this is dreaming,
I don’t give my consent,
bring back the blackness,
this is not what I meant

-image via Pinterest, The end of yesterday by Delira

Dare to Dream

I dare close my eyes,
to be still and content,
despite the blackness,
threatening ascent,
almost instantaneously,
feeling rapid descent,
but it’s not black,
where was I sent?
it’s all so bold,
and lines are bent,
in technicolor,
with vivid accent,
non-linear and sharp,
the not-shapes torment,
rippling hues spinning,
a vortex of dissent,
hands and fingers paw at me,
a sea of malcontent,
a sensory kaleidoscope,
I’m overwhelmed, spent,
rapid breath in all blues,
but it’s stuck like cement,
I can’t feel my skin,
is this going to relent?
am I still sleeping?
where have I went?
if this is dreaming,
I don’t give my consent,
bring back the blackness,
this is not what I meant

-image via Pixabay

Longing

skin of sand
blown about
reaching hand
full of doubt
thinking errant
stay with me
peeling, transparent
want to flee
need your arms
invisibility cloak
safe from harm
the mirrors and smoke
your voice, I crave
my metronome
your pulse my nave
my haven, my home