#napowrimo

25. Anxiety

One moment you are sitting still,

the other you’re not. The worst

moment for anxiety to hit is

probably when you least expect

it. Can you expect it though? It

waits for you to be weak, or to

be your happiest self. It strikes

when you feel nothing and then

your whole world comes collapsing.

Anxiety, holds you hostage in your

own body. Sucks your soul and

keeps it that way, lifeless and

unattended. It’s the feeling of heat

in an air-conditioned room, the dip

in your heart while taking a dump,

the paralyses induced when you

hear about that one trigger that you

just discovered is triggering.

ANXIETY, the word is enough to

render you inactive, perplexed,

agitated, sad, and all the other

emotions you can’t name. This

blank document writing itself

and bringing within it the anxious

scrolling while the heart still dips

and beats in tones not understood

by me.

24. A paranoid hate poem

The walls piercing through their plaster,

as if watching me, mocking me, there

are four. I’m locked in a room and my

demons are feeding on my mind. The

bed shakes sometimes, and sometimes

it refuses to move, it holds me close

and screams that it’ll never let me go.

I’m locked in a room and my demons are

feeding on my mind. My bookshelf sits

there, waiting for me to run my fingers

through it like I used to, but I don’t have

that childlike enthusiasm left in me like

I had in November. I’m locked in a room

with my demons who never let me sleep.

I’m locked in this room with my demons,

and they are feeding on my soul. I’m

locked in this godforsaken room, seeking

an out and these demons are sucking the

life out of me. I’m locked in this room

awaiting my sweet release.

23. PSA

Breathe in……..

..2

..1

……..Breathe out

..4

..3

..2

..1

Repeat

22. To whomsoever it may concern

Can you breathe?

The air passing you by, the

moments too. The undesired

quest of knowing and not

knowing. The inability to rest.

Can you smell?

The bodies, rotten and dunked

in blood, with no one to pay

heed to. Then waiting in despair

with no one in the waiting.

Can you taste?

The salt in their eyes, the misery

imposed by the system. The

horrible, sour, bland flavor of

a failed regime.

Can you hear?

The screams, the wailing, the

howls, their cries. They are still

waiting and screaming. Can

you hear them?

21. Notes from the journal

For those who alone did trot,

waiting for a miracle to come,

they often are not looking too,

for a sign to pass them by. Done

with the world, evading their

shadows, holding it by the helves.

For they don’t need anyone to survive,

they are whole in themselves.

20. Incredulous

They tell me not to read mythology and

believe aimlessly what is forever told.

Of the formation of this universe, the

chaos that metamorphed into the sun,

the stars, the planets, you and me. The

violent rage and act of defiance by

Amnon and his death acting as a deterra

-nce, probably the first where the crime

did someone free. Did you know of all the

Greek tragedy, my favorite is the one told

bySophocles? It talks of love, honor, the

duty, oppression and tyranny as it unfolds.

They tell me not to read mythology and

believe aimlessly what is forever told.

I recall now that I once read, of woman so

strong, warriors she fed. Madhavi was her

name and she bore it with pride, she was

used as a fortune by them. Alas, it was

written by men. Forever, I did try to find the

genesis of his highness Macbeth or of

Sisyphus, who twice cheated death. If you

close your eyes, you can hear poor Orpheus’

lore.

They tell me not to read mythology and

believe aimlessly what is forever told.

When they ask me to believe, I do often

gather, the four horsemen making their way

to end the world, but I’d take hurricanes and

tsunamis rather. Fearless as they are, it’s the

women who call me from the narrative they

are written in, always longing to be at par.

The mightiness of the men, their heroism is

at what the story is often sold.

They tell me not to read mythology and

believe aimlessly what is forever told.

19. Questions unanswered

In the quest of knowing and not

knowing, the remembering is

what baffles me profusely.

For I shall never know

what it holds for me

and what it holds

against

my solemn

self.

18. Yugen

Can you hear the music

echoing in the streets?

There are voices too doleful

to take no notice of.

Can you hear them scream

and crying in the streets?

The voices now deafening

destroying the credence.

Can you feel their voices

calling out for help?

The agony, the distress

still calling, but now it’s too late.

17. We exist

I don’t know which type I am. The A

type which is always ready to for an

adventure, would want to talk on the

phone and not really on the message

Or the B type, the one who really lie low,

loves to be left alone with their

thoughts, just need a book and coffee.

I don’t know which type I am. I am the

one who wants to be there, always,

with my friends, having fun and seeking

adventure but not always, I carry my

favorite book to my favorite places

alone and in that quest, I start feeling

lonely, the kind of lonely that comes

when you’re surrounded by people. I

don’t know which type I am, I think

these types were created by us to make

the people conform to the set principles

and to understand ourselves the way

we perceive everyone else, ordinary and

vanilla. So, I don’t know which type I am.

I am the type who gets a bout of spunk

only sometimes. The kind of courage that

forces me to download a dating app but

doesn’t help in actually going out and

meeting people. The type that enables

my every act of sneering insolence and

makes me believe that I am a product

of these baseless by-laws, and I’m ought

to be like this and act like this. I don’t

know which type I am, but I know that

I am not what the world wants me to be.

We exist.

16. Welcome to my Ted talk

I’ve come to a halt. My body

doesn’t want to move, it is

breathing out air, inhaling and

exhaling but moving, no. It is

done, I am done, my brain, my

body, every nerve in my system is

done. I recently watched this

show called “Feel good” in hopes

to feel good myself, and it hit me

like an epiphany, how comedy

often masks the complexities

of nature, we call it mental health.

So, now that I’ve watched

something that was supposed to

be feel good, and I don’t feel good

after it, I think that the feelings that

are resonated by my mind, my body,

will go unnoticed. I don’t know how

to feel about it and whom to talk

about it. So, now, my body is in this

state of self loathing with an ounce

of anxiety because I wanted to watch

something that’d make me feel good,

but instead I watched something that

made me miserable.

I writhe and thrash
when the venom spits.
I lash out, shriek, spray it
on everything near me.
It eats through my skin
and grounding
and the earth shakes.

You wind around me,
still the wrath and trembling.
You are warmth
and silence, a balm.

You catch my poison with your lips,
drink down my hissing acid.

Kissing me through the burn,
you wait it out.

You are a bed of stone
worn to my shape, but
solid.

Your quiet can cover
my screams and
you stop
earthquakes
with your arms.

Heidi Richardson Evans

—–

I started writing a gender-flipped version of alluding to the Loki and Sigyn myth for my husband then took out the gender and made it second person… it might be more interesting to put his gender back in. Let the dude be the caretaker, the dutiful spouse.

I don’t know… haven’t written for a week. My depression/anxiety has been consuming. I wanted it to rework so that the venom is an internal thing and my “Sigyn” doesn’t hold a bowl. He’s the bowl himself and the snakes too (but they’re a positive thing) and the rock I’m bound to.

I don’t know if this works. It doesn’t matter; I just wanted to get something out here to try to find my stride again.

Feedback is always welcome.

in my mind’s eye, you’re frozen
in time, in place
not even revolving, never evolving

taxidermied, preserved, stuffed

until the next time we meet,
face to face
and you ask me to reassure you,
learn you all over again

this time:
i see you

you look soft and spiky,
like a tumbleweed
happier drifting with the wind
and your thorns
but when you latch on
to your chosen rock,
they’re stuck with you,
more often than not…

because you’re endearing,
as much as you’re wearying.

again, you ask me to reassure you
i hear you

you said: i’m ready to bloom
and i said: let me take a step back,
and you can have the room
and i wait
it seems i’m always waiting on you
to let go, to latch on
to latch on to me, preferably…
ha!

instead, i see you grow
i hear you, and i know

it’s my problem, not yours
but
i’d like to cultivate my roses, too
and i can’t do that
if i’m letting you still my room,
waiting on you to see me
and the space that i need.