[POEM] Living in other worlds (inspired by “Other Worlds” by Trivium

We’re dreaming in color
But we’re living in other worlds
Breathing in other worlds

“She’s drowning”

His eyes light upon his found prize.

He has searched through heaven, with hope in his heart.

And there he found her, next to his body, far gone from his spirit.

Her eyes were vacant as they stared through him,
Gold leaf painting the sky as it bled for her, for them.
Every cloud was finished with a murder red trim
As if someone had sliced off each one’s hem.

Blind, and breathless, a cage for a bird was her body,
No longer a vessel for life, as she found herself lost.
Living in another world. Breathing in the other worlds.

She choked on this grey sin, though he was holy.
Her form, cut with hues, was crippled from heavy cost.
Dying here, while her soul reached out to other worlds.

You’re like a song within a nightmare
A thought within a scream

Lances burst through with colour on solid flesh,
Desperate tears run ink black down pale skin,
Living within her own mind, she finds the colours
Of her torment painted on the sky, in its spears
And dripping languorously. So beautiful. So Fresh.
Eyes wide, she had seen her fate before, akin
To a dream, unlike a nightmare, fleshed behind doors.
Her fingers tremble against her death. It burns. It sears.

His knees grit beside her broken body, fingers seeking her relief.
His hands coat in her purple and red ink, her black tears of paint.
His eyes watch, as the dark figure of death swirls like a thief.
His soul prays, hoping this world lost traveler finds a saint.

To rid her of her colorful sin.

To mend the broken bird of her suicide.

To heal his knowledge of her, and forget what he knew… That he knew she would choke and die in this world, when she was connected to so many.

We’re dreaming in color
But we’re living in other worlds
Breathing in other worlds

Her, broken. He, welled with grey tears.
Fingers forever stained with her years
Of blooming, hue filled pain.
A rainbow of sorrow.

 

[Poem] Blessed

Finding the right words to express joy
When it has been a longtime stranger…
Learning to feel its elation through my bones
Is hard enough, but to entrap it with words?

It’s as if I have found an old childhood toy,
And am struggling to make it work. Danger
Is in the back of my mind. Chance blown
As my fingers clumsily untangle it in thirds.

The tip between happiness and pitfalls
Is far too near to rest easy within glee.
But I still clutch onto it, not too hard,
In hopes I can keep it near.

 

[POEM] The Tree

Winter shifts its bone white sheet of cold
Across the world. From colours oh so bold
To bare and barren our world slowly turns.
Each tree leaf sets itself aflame and burns.

Orange, sunlight and blood trickles off
Their heights, into the pavements like troughs
Of colour and brightness. And then, they sleep.
Except for one. She hides within herself so deep.

The others look upon her with pity as they
Prepare for their winter slumber. They lay
Their leaves down like covers on the ground
And let their hibernation come without a sound.

“Is she even a tree?” one asks in hushed
Voice. But she stood green, not flushed
With tender colours of blushing leaves
As the earth around her dies and heaves.

Her friends have all shed their skin, as
She becomes lifeless. Dead? She has
Lost her life, but her branches still grow.
Perhaps her nesting time is just slow?

Pity whispers on the wind as one day
She finds herself alone. Some, they say
That she is bare and lifeless from pain.
Not able to feel slumber ever again.

So she stands half alive, grey trunk, alone.
Until she finds vulnerable, nude to the bone
And exposed, to the sharp touch of Jack’s
Hands. She sometimes wishes for the axe.

But what can a tree do, when she forgets
How to die for the winter? Full of regrets
She misses the feeling of spring between
Her fingers and weeps over flowers never seen.

[POEM] Forgettable

I find myself falling into the most forgettable stupor.
Wonder, will I ever wake myself.
My world is a dry and desolate place, I a war torn trooper.
Dying of life thirst.

Burning the ends of my fingertips, I find ink stains.
Beneath my flesh they bleed.
Running along my stiffened bones and sickened veins.
Drowning in drought.

Eyelashes flutter, against consciousness, unconsciousness.
I have no protection here.
Slowly stripping off my tattered armor. It’s useless.
Rusting in the sun.

 

[POEM] The burning

My bones have wilted ‘neath
The harsh glare of the sun.
Limbs weak, gaze languid,
Stars blocked from eyes with
Grey storm clouds.
My tongue lies heavy in
My mouth, an unwelcome
Visitor in this casket that
Once lived so brightly. So very
Intermittently. A candle
Flickering, born and dying
Every hour, never able to
Make up its mortal mind.
It asks: Am I fire?
Or am I being burned?
Through the pain and
Self awareness it does not know.
I do not know.
But what is the different if
The slow burning pain
Feels just the same either way?

[POEM] Overturned evenings

Fingertips lace against the thin film of sleep
Endlessly and without successful reverie
And she keeps her eyes wide open, in hope
She will spot the sandman knocking at her door.

Cold air washes over her old bones left in the
Mortal realm of consciousness. She wilts,
A broken flower that feeds on starlight in her
Dreams. She begins to weaken into herself daily.

Bleached beneath alter darkness, skin flushes
With desperation. Mind forgets and numbs as
Pill after pill tumbles past her lips and down the
Cavern of her throat. Her roots are stuck in her bed.

Alone, as anyone beneath moonlight with wide
Quiet eyes always is. Her brown orbs hush deeply.
The silence echoes around her as her heart begs.
Let me visit my dreams once more. Let me live.

[POEM] .

I can feel their grip tightening today.
Where reality becomes as tenuous
As the breath from my imagined
Demons. Which should I turn
My cheek to?

Reaching for their overdue pay.
They make living just as arduous
As the dreams that blackened
My heart. How should I burn
My sins away?

I curl myself into comforts that
Stretch as far as time, but penetrate
Shallow into my soul. When will
I be whole. When should I battle
For my life?

Vision turns angled and flat.
Sounds bombard me and reverberate
Through bleached bones. My pill
Won’t make me whole. Who will rattle
My chains for freedom?

Darkness and coffin surround
Me unseen, until I bury myself,
With only my imagination to weep
At my death. What has this
Sorry life become?

[POEM] Sometimes

It still strikes within my broken body
When I had thought it was dying a death.

It turns, grinning and moving wildly
And reminds me of its depth and breadth.

All consuming, it pushes in madly
Demanding I give it each ragged breath.

All sense of time and true reality
Leaves me, as does my soul’s wealth.

[DEPRESSION] 2 weeks over – What now?

Two weeks have passed, and though my sleeping has improved (Wahey waking up at 5am instead of somewhere around 3am), I now feel anxious when I wake up.

My mind unpleasantly wrestles me from sleep at full strength, whirring before I even know sleep is over. My dreams are vivid, but I don’t remember most of them and that suits me just fine.

Queasy, reactive stomach, though my libido seems… fine? Not under-active and it’s resurfaced after a long depression related dormant period.

BUT – I actually felt feelings yesterday. And once the day before. I almost giggled in public, and I actually felt endorphins when I went to the gym. So instead of being permanently grey or irritated, or hateful, I have actually begun to feel some joy.

I really didn’t realise how much it had been missing from my life until I felt that little spark. It was such a shock, and such an alien feeling that it actually hurts a little, and makes me feel somewhat uncomfortable at moments.

But I’m looking forward to learning how to feel and be vulnerable again, which I haven’t had to do in a long time.

Vulnerability is something I’ll have to focus on.