Why are you leaving me?
and stay with me.
You’re too loud
and it hurts my ears.
Will you please quit yelling?
Why are you so quiet?
Please talk to me.
I want to go to bed.
Why can’t I fall asleep?
I’m counting sheep,
so why am I focused on the wolf?
I don’t want to wake up in a sweat.
I don’t want to dream,
because my dreams are always nightmares.
So, why go to sleep?
Everything hurts me;
it hurts to exist.
Hold me close,
and wrap your arms around me.
Don’t touch me!
leave me alone.
And no, I don’t want to talk about it.
Turn the music up,
and I’ll lose myself in the lyrics.
I don’t understand…
Music is for happy people,
so shut it.
I don’t want to fake a smile.
But I also don’t want
to have my real emotions on display.
I want to cry.
Instead, I laugh really hard.
I hate people,
but I want to be accepted.
I know I should be the one
who accepts myself.
But it hurts to be
in my own head.
My father proudly called me his poet,
but I’m not so sure I am.
Unless you count the strings of broken lyrics
scribbled on each page,
filling up my pink, floral notebook.
the cover of my journal tells a story
of daisies and daffodils,
and gold calligraphy letters that scream femininity.
I think my mother bought it
to empower the little girl in me.
How dare I fill those pages
with ink that bleeds from my heart?
How dare I write words
of rebellion and disappointment?
I’m not the proud, little girl my mother
wanted me to be.
And I’m not the talented poet my father
willed me to become.
I bleed in clumps of words
and I transfer my scars on paper.
And the people who adore my writings
are the underdogs in society.
I may not be your poet, dad
and I may not be your feminist, mom
I am a voice.
Sometimes I am all but a whisper
I am a voice.
I have written a poem to portray one of the many feelings that are commonly experienced after trauma; anger or rage. In the past, I used to be afraid to admit to myself that I am angry, which only led to further suppressing my emotions. This week, something strange happened; I had an epiphany. And I realized that I can run; but I cannot hide. And so I faced my anger. It’s hard but it’s not as scary as I thought it would be. And the bonus? A beautiful and touching poem that perfectly expresses how I feel. Here goes:
Bloody, red Bordeaux’s in bottle-green glass,
and warm light saturating the room;
my mother picked violets to spoil me,
but I want to throw it all away.
I pop five corks, hurting after three,
and let my nostrils welcome the aroma of aged oak.
I mourn for the fermentation, filtration, and clarification;
for I will never taste the Cabernet Franc meticulously grown
in the magical valley of Loire.
The process of oxidation unleashes an inner fury,
as I hear the shattering of glass in my body.
Have I inherited violence in my genetic code?
Because nothing makes me feel at peace,
but three hundred sixty-five pieces of broken glass;
when shards and shards puncture through my body,
and the color of my blood, like watercolors, mixed with wine
creates deathly hues in deep shades of reds,
and stains pristine white linen.
My mind only stops its death march,
when droplets of expensive Merlot run down the walls
and form puddles on the granite around me.
Sleep only comes to rescue me when once beautiful blossoms,
drown in those cursed little ponds; home to glass fish.
And only after,
I have exerted myself-flinging bottles, hurling objects
and taring flowers-
has my soul finally reached the point of tranquility,
for me to fall asleep on the floor,
in my own havoc.
My bad choices
My choices of today
I can’t allow myself
To spiral downward
Because I slipped and fell.
If I follow the line
Of the past
Death would be
My middle name
If I let the past reign
I become the oppressed
In a dictatorship
Needing to be overthrown.
I will make new choices
Today and tomorrow
Begin a revolution,
Break the cycle.
Because I can,
Because I want!
I smell the white chalk dust, which I hear
Against the board, and the sound of pencils moving fast
I hear her voice in the distance, still
My body is confined to a blue plastic chair; my cell
And a wooden desk.
My mind is at the vanity mirror this morning.
I think she talks of grids, and while my peers
Chart it out on graph paper
In their notebooks
I remember the razor blades and dried up blood
And the charted graph I have on my arm
I’m wearing a navy blue, cotton shirt; its sleeves covering the gauze
And it hides my well-kept secret.
Why has she stopped talking? Does she know?
She wants to confirm I’m following.
I understand every word, term, and concept
I’ve got parallel lines and perpendicular too
I know how to graph and how to read charts.
Only yours is in pencil,
And mine is blood.
Life is not easy as a person suffering from mental illness. There’s so many ups and downs and I never know which is better, the up part or the down. Each one comes with its own trials and tribulations.
Yet, today I’d like to do a shoutout to our many friends. This is for all of you who watch us suffer, grow, heal and fall back down. Thank you for being there with us in our hell and for teaching us how to fly when we forget how to use our wings.
Good friends are priceless. And I’ve learned that sometimes they make all the difference in my mental health.
I gulped down a can
Of bright, red paint
Its color was 100 mph
So the label said
And it was true…
For I felt it cascading
Down my throat
Filling each crevice
And chink and dent
Millions of em; who knew?
I was a walking sculpture
Of bloodied hell
Red pain searing
Blistering; grueling view.
And you stood by me
Walked through the blaze
Cleared the smoke
Focused on a vision
The whole way through…
Artistry and skill
And so much goodwill
A heart that’s made of gold
With kind precision
Transformed the red statue.
Brush strokes of kin
Added gloss to red paint
And sketched roses
Bordeaux wine, maraschino
An image brand new…
I swallowed red paint
But maybe it’s not all bad
Who said red’s solely hellish
Maybe it is a brother
For I know it’s friendship too!
Some days are spent looking at my reflection in the mirror trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. When I see my scars, bruises and scabbing wounds, I know that I don’t recognize myself anymore. When I see the unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes, I know that I am no longer me.
And not knowing who I am and where I’m headed to, is the scariest and most frightening thought to me. More than anything else I’ve had to deal with as a result of my depression.
This is a poem I wrote after a particularly rough night.
My hair is in my face, And my heart’s beating fast, My pajamas stick to my skin, And my breath smells of smoke.
I can still feel the Chardonnay, Rushing through my blood, And my mind a fuzzy ball, Of lint, attracting more dust.
My skin’s a bloody battlefield, But you wouldn’t understand, My body isn’t mine, Yet I don’t know whose it is.