Patterns

The lines on these wood grain floors
show me shapes of madness.
My eyes eagerly lose focus,
and my demons weave into the patterns.

A breath deeper than I expect slides into my chest;
it burns with intensity as it makes itself comfortable.
I exhale loudly as stars burst on my eyelids,
and my heart bellows in my ears that it cannot keep up.

There are echoes of hope and fear fighting somewhere close;
they are both so determined to show me what they can do.
In my memory a phone rings,
And if I answer it, I will lose everything again.

I force a breath, shorter this time:
controlled; slow; purposeful.
I will give hope every advantage I can in this battle,
for fear is a foe that does not play fair.

 

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Patterns

 

Patterns is one of nine poems that make up my Whispers in the Dark Collection, a collection focused on mental health. You can view the rest of the collection here.

Collapse

Today you will carry a burden heavier than your hands can hold;

it will not relent or diminish through the hours.

Your mind will scream obscenities that offer freedom for giving up,

and your burning muscles will beg that you do so for fear of collapse.

Pity will be your shadow today;

anger will be the carrot that dangles before you on a string.

Do not yield to either.

You will breathe.

You will persevere.

You will survive.

 

 

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Collapse is one of nine poems that make up my Whispers in the Dark Collection, a collection focused on mental health. You can view the rest of the collection here.

Destruction

You awake from a restless sleep.
Immediately you can sense it; there is no safety here.
An agonizing lump forms in your throat;
anger rolls between your temples like hungry thunder.
Aching tension rests between your shoulders,
as your eyes struggle to see more than broken shapes.

If regret had a taste, it’s perched upon your lips,
and all that you can breathe is the sour scent of failure.
Thoughts comes waltzing in ridden with detriment,
while pity admonishes every glance you give to hope.

Your heart begs for just one free moment to beat softly;
it will not come tonight.

 

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destruction

 

Destruction is one of nine poems that make up my Whispers in the Dark Collection, a collection focused on mental health. You can view the rest of the collection here.

Oblivion

You find yourself on a staircase descending into the dark,
spiraling wider into oblivion,
and no handrails exist to offer support
to protect your naivety from going too far.

Only the erratic beating of your heart,
the deafening quake of your breath lingering in stale air,
and the murmurs of raw fear
stand against a perpetual black veil.

There is more in this darkness than you can see,
and everything in you tells you to be anywhere but here.
There are sounds on these steps that you cannot hear,
but you are frozen in this place just feet from where you began.

You reach all around hoping to touch anything real,
and the air is empty of promise.
You take another step; it is darker than the last,
but there is no way back to where you were.

There is nothing before you, or behind
that lets you know this is going to be ok.
Your fists cannot grow any tighter;
nor your tears any harder.

Your breath has long abandoned you.
You feel your heart skip a beat, and then another.
A light shines far below and you whisper,
that this is not the end.

 

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Oblivion is one of nine poems that make up my Whispers in the Dark Collection, a collection focused on mental health. You can view the rest of the collection here.

The Adversary

A single barrier lay before me, and I do not covet its purpose.

For on my side of this sheathe, the force of counted breaths alone could topple stone;

On the opposite, vast leagues of unsurety farther than eyesight.

To step even towards the barrier, my heart disparages my optimism with fervor,

And yet I push hopelessly, recklessly forward.

In this battle of inches, I do not fear the tide or the sun or the dark that preys;

It is the solitude of this desperate walk that gives this barrier a foundation.

And I, with hopeless, reckless purpose, will take another step.

 

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The Adversary is one of nine poems that make up my Whispers in the Dark Collection, a collection focused on mental health. You can view the rest of the collection here.

The Balancing Act

Like the pesticides trickle, he’s able and amble to avoid what we all must eventually face. Facetious like liars see faceted storylines, he views like a scared viewer would. Corporal, whimsical, drudgery limits he, stepping a stone with his wobbly flee. But runaway, oh he can’t, he shan’t, shone through a window, like watching TV’s the passersby see. Flickers of light, so brightly throwing, with merrily tap dancing litter it shows how abundance is crowding and feuding is growing. Crows aren’t so bad: disastrous things- given names of unholy- the watchers they are. While he- not one to martyr, for appeasement is a tricky hole- caresses his mistakes and vows for their namesakes, the correlation isn’t one he makes so easy. A dimwit, he’s not; a coward, he ought to be, for thinking and doing are two opposites to him. One is a road that he travels down hasty, fastening himself to the thought at the road end. One is a hole that he buries his nose in, hoping to catch, if not but a scent of the place that is calling and prodding him deep, down and forward.

Alliteration for the Illiterates

Basically bursting and burning with bruises from bastards who bash upon beating beliefs, the cowardly musical playwright- he isn’t- wrote a disaster full of disease. The sleaze, as he called it, was free and above the structures of love and a word wasn’t one just to stop it. The copies: they tried to re-create what he cried, as the songs seemed to be made of tears. And fears from them all would just grow like a cancer, dancing with souls as it devoured them whole. And toxic, the drowning in sorrowful pools as tears from the lucky that watched the performance were rained down upon the frowning eluded. Conclusions were made and clamours were clapped, and all were convinced that they weren’t tricked, but loosely believing can beat you by leaving you basically bursting and burning.

The Tree We’ve All Climbed

Curiosity dabbled on his palette of jugdement, mixing the scheme of his painted picture.
He saluted to some, while bowing to others; he shook hands with one, and kissed with another.
Leaving a mark of some change in his ways, a varying, glaringly, obvious praise
to indifference with twisted methodical ways to surrender persona to each passing gaze.
He gave out his thoughts like a deck dealt it’s cards; faces cards of kings much like the faces he would show,
but growing: he did not.

He never took grants, or the handouts of friends; he never took for granted for which he had been given.
Rather, he left such a mark, such a facet, with each smile given, with every brow risen.
Yet fallacy steadily emptied his purse, and in this he suffered a sparingly curse,
to misfortune his lies, barraging his mind, and with confusion he droughted.
He spoke no more ferverent, pestulent lines; he dashed no more brashness to implore his guise;
he spoke no more fallacy, impuning his rise to the stardom he’d gotten from perforated lies.

His friendliness crashed leaving marks of disaster and changing his faces was no longer a craft.
His persona grew heavy and stuck in one pose, his eyes glazed grey over and he wrinkled his nose.
His face like a white cloud that had filled up with moisture was loose and obtuse and conjoined with his posture.
His shoulders slinked forward and his gut filled with noise like a rumble of guilt that had swallowed his joys.
His feet became slender and dragging in mud that was so thick and sloppy and his mind filled with gluttony.
He froze in that standing with his arms hanging low near his knees that had hardened from the wind steady breeze.

Joy toppled him over with the help of his foes- the friends of before who had all joined in prose-
of a melody, felony captured their hearts and their hatred within from his lies in the darkness.
Perhaps such a sonneted, aduous theme had he learned from his fixture on top of a dream
that he had when he drank all his spewing relention and gave it all out to those closest to mention.

Dapper Dan

His shadow sat and empty spaces filled his void

while days passed by without a word,

and laughing did naught but help his demeanor,

his anger got the best of battles.

Shackled life of a convicts living,

dying wasn’t what he feared;

breaking free from confines that he made inside his mind,

escaping droughts of free-form thinking kept him sane in whole.

Dapper Dan is what he called

and answered to alike,

but one for him and one alone,

was sure to converse all night.

No words went holy, blasphemy touched and dabbled,

but by and by and through his own, the world revolved in him.

His sunken ship of merry thoughts

was long below the sheath,

‘neathe his earthen fingers kept a diary of sonnet.

He singed and sang evaporations

so words would never reach an ear,

a hand to grasp the sound and his was all he wanted.

I see you

And he knew not but what he saw, yet blinding eyes were all he had,

and driving love for loving’s sake had naught but driven mad.

He took her hands and wiped her tears and calmed her fears

and saved the years of torment she had lived so nightly;

lightly he caressed her face;

lace never felt this soft.

aloft her body draped so silent,

fate was right when leading him to water tasting so cool,

so sweet- a feast to his parched lips.

and parting ways would never come,

and ending days were like the sun that never set below the sea,

and seeing never mattered.

she woke his sight, and night by night

he saw her twinkled, glowing eyes,

showing him what he always knew would someday come

within the hearing distance of his cries.