Mental Health
Quiet Storms
Sometimes, you feel really worried about life. This is not satisfactory, and that is not satisfactory, and you may become inadvertently irritable. In fact, this is not because you have a bad temper, but because there are too many trivial matters.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Poets
Silent Speech
The words left unsaid are my kryptonite. The feeling of strain across my throat that alters my pathway of breathing is painful. There is a constant struggle to release the tension when more is consistently piled on. It hurts. It’s like the everlasting feeling of rubbing your skin against a grate. There seems to be no end in sight. With every thought this motion occurs and I feel hopeless about it. There are words trapped in my soul itching and clawing to get out. At the expense of losing my voice these words are caged. Constantly having to alter and change according to who is around has forced me to close down. A million filters have been made that have put my mind into overdrive. Now, I feel as though I am broken. Anything could be said and my mind is unable to fully process it. I am frustrated by this. My lack of control over what I have said around others. I am so caught up in the editing that I forget and don’t realize what is actually being published. Others do not understand the struggle of having a comfortable conversation when every single word is put under scrutiny. I wish to one day be that free. To speak freely and unapologetically. I want to not go through the day in my mind having a more in depth conversation with me, myself, and I. But maybe it is not all me. Sometimes, people just do not understand. The logic seems to be lost by one thing or another. I am not the most reasonable or smart. However, I focus more on what it is. The situation at hand dictates how I communicate, at least that is how I like it to be.
By Naomi Landsabout a year ago in Poets
Frost's Grasp
Dear, whomever this letter reaches, In the desperation, last ditched notion of legacy, I wrote it. I want to remember, to hold onto the feeling of the quiet cold of the world awakening and the bite across my bare pale flesh as the sun shines, though its power is bereft and left us. I sit and ponder existence, purchase and agency as my skin becomes taut and blemished by the pierce of the frozen, meeting the warmth that still pumps through my body. The frost has taken its grip at Jack Frost’s behest. When you channel power toward a cause—one you have no reason to belong to—do you truly have agency? Especially when Jack’s bitter hand rests on your shoulder, promising a better future than the past you’ve endured.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
