Poetry
Writing to, from, and about the parts within. Sharing to normalize the healing process.
Out Now: How To Write Evocative Poetry
terrified of nothing
this morning i woke
terrified of nothing
my anxiety already overworking itself
working me up to a state of near panic
i tried remembering that i am safe
it didn’t help
i tried breathing slowly
but i couldn’t
so my body tried to vomit out the nonexistent toxins of which it believed itself afflicted
i doubled over
i feel to my to my knees
and expelled everything
and in the slight pause
between the release
and the wiping of the mess off my beard
i had moment of reflection
i began to laugh
how silly i thought
to be so afraid of nothing
how ridiculous is my anxiety!
what a joke!
looking down at last nights dinner
i felt empowered
but that empowerment was quickly quashed
a dead weight in the depths of my gut began to form
a weight so heavy that even the most adamant
of retching couldn’t dislodge
the laughter ended
new thoughts replaced old
and i realised
that true nothingness
is beyond terrifying
that the opposite of fear isn’t calm
the opposite of sadness isn’t happiness
the opposite of hate isn’t love
no
the opposite of all of those things
the opposite of everything
is a nothingness so vast
so all encompassing
that i couldn’t comprehend a merest portion
awed by the paradoxical size of the nothingness
i wept
but then i laughed once more
for that weight in my gut
and the sheer terror that it evoked
told me
that for now at least
i am living on the opposite side of the nothingness
my anxiety is right
i should be afraid
but i should also
be grateful of the fact
that i can wake
terrified
vomiting
and unable
to slowly
breathe This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry
A Moment That Will Never Come
It feels like
I’ve been preparing
My entire life
For a moment that will never come
My body is tense
My mind is sharp
Yet I have nothing to do
With such focus
There is no enemy to fight
No emergency to survive
No monumental struggle to overcome
Nothing other than this day
And the next and the one after that
What glory is there to be found
In the daily grind?
How can I be proud of defeating
The mere anxiety of surviving the moment?
. . .
I crave catastrophe
And ache for the apocalypse
Not as a nihilist
But as a person without purpose
There’s little joy to be found in a job
Creating just to consume
Producing just to procreate
Done daily until death
I am a man without meaning
Readying myself for revelation
When survival isn’t assured life is serious
The useless artefacts will fall away
What actually matters will materialise
Focus will be forced towards functionality
Distracting decadences will be discarded
Leaving nothing but the struggle of life
Perhaps then I’ll find real purpose
Maybe existence will feel equanimous
. . .
How privileged
Am I
To lament
The ease of my life
I am blessed
To have never seen war
Or suffering
I am blessed
Yet that blessing
Feels like a curse of meaning
Without an enemy to fight
Without an obstacle to overcome
All this feels dulled
Life feels like a shadow
A mockery of everything I was promised
Thus I create my own demons
Faceless oppressors
That cannot be seen
Or overcome
Then I cry about my problems
Like they actually exist
Writing angsty poems
From a place of privilege
. . .
As a child
I learnt
Vigilance
To survive
I slept light
A knife under my pillow
Waiting for an attack
That attack never came
But I still sleep light
And have made my body into a weapon
I am still vigilant
Waiting for the attack
That will never come