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Dark Poetry #1
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sgreybe
Member
since 2000-04-28
Posts 209
London, UK

0 posted 2000-04-28 07:59 AM


TRAPPED

Division of mind from body, as floating on air.  Juxtaposed mind and will - cannot exist together; yet do.  A fuzzy veil hangs before me, and my eyes illuminate only that which is immediately before me, and only after they are blinked repeatedly.  I cannot focus, think, concentrate, stay awake, function.  Weighted down, I'm drowning in air.  I ask questions, but I cannot hear myself.  Again the river takes me, washes me away from myself, life, sanity.  I wonder at the extension of myself.  How am I with-out myself, standing outside, back, watching myself?  

I test myself and the world.  How far can one push oneself?  And what does "out of your mind" mean anyway?  How does one know?

Food has become a repulsion; alcohol a craving.  I can't stop sleeping, and even when I'm awake I'm busy sleeping.  The harshness of focusing dissipates concentration; and words, meanings, explanations escape my understanding.  I long to be physically sick, so I can curl up and retreat from the world of tired explanations, into one of childlike dependence and happiness.

I see myself as an excess of what I was, what I should be.  Though the scale should reassure of fluctuation within my standard boundaries, I cannot somehow see it that way.

Before my eyes flash constantly the images of a faulty me.  Before subconscious, now real on the inside of my eyelids.  The movie of wrong choices, mistakes, failures plays before me, inside me, within me.

I shake my head; nothing.  Emptiness fills me.  Every muscle in my body aches.

I reach out for help.
Nothing moves.
I cannot move.

Trapped.

I know I am here; yet who is here?  I'm not sure I even know who I am.  Trying to climb out, the walls sinking-sand beneath me; whilst landslides perpetuate downward mobility.

Trapped.  

Forever is a long time; or it ends right here.
Night-time should come; envelope me, draw me within itself.  A wilted flower.

Time ticks backwards as I will my hand to lift.  The only thing I can make myself do is write.

The only thing I want to do is cry.  Cry until the well runs dry.  Cry until someone stops.

Nothing is my anchor.  Listless I flap in the wind.  Like an old discarded newspaper, I brush against the legs of fellow man.  I look up, desperate.

Shaken off quickly.

I land between feet.  Trampled.  Somewhere between hell and me there is life.  Life.  Somewhere.

Trapped.

© Copyright 2000 Sylvia Greybe - All Rights Reserved
Joel the wolf
Senior Member
since 2000-04-06
Posts 1333
Angels Camp
1 posted 2000-04-28 09:00 AM


Very vivid my friend, how you describe this, God how I'm been there, and you say no one knows your pain? Well your right, we all have our own but the same. Your writing is very descriptive, I tend to do the same, All you can do is write now then write on
and Welcome to passions.
Although we read your words, I think we feel them most.
The alcohol? well I just hope your not driving.
Joel.

 I howl a mornful song, that echos within my chambered heart, for all to read? nay for all to feel.

kittyj
Junior Member
since 2000-04-17
Posts 32
CANADA
2 posted 2000-04-28 09:50 AM


"Somewhere between hell and me there is life".  I really dig that.  I can totally relate to sleeping the days away,  I craved sleep, it was the only place I could find comfort.  No thinking, no interruptions, but also no life. Sleep can be a cage, like all things.

It is so hard to find balance, when you can barely stand...

A brutally honest poem, very well done. Welcome, I look forward to reading more.

j.


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