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

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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

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

Bringers of the Light

some would say we’re too sensitive
call us sissies or say we’re too frail
some would call us drama queens
and erect walls for us to scale

some would say we’re broken
angles and edges that just don’t fit
but I see cracks made by growth
where love was free to sift

I see expression, fearlessly
when some wish to tuck it away
truth tellers in a world of omission
seekers, willing to bend and fray

because, we aren’t afraid of darkness
for our hearts shine too bright
and we have the most amazing job –
we are the bringers of the light

-image via free lighthouse wallpapers; shared also in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver prompt