A Woman’s Plight
Dealt with on a monthly basis
My chest is tight
My breathing fast,
My body’s screaming
How longs it last?
***
The anger I feel
The world I hate,
So hard to conceal
So hard to take.
***
I can’t sit still
I need to pace,
I need to be alone
You, I cannot face.
***
Oh how much longer
My body’s tired,
Don’t speak to me
My tempers fired.
***
Can’t relax
My thoughts scattered,
Trying to hang on
Is all that matters.
***
My heart is racing
Tears flow,
How much longer
I just don’t know.
***
But life goes on
Tomorrow will be fine,
It won’t seem so bad
Until this day next time.
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About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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More stories from Colleen Millsteed and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
Comments (2)
This was very relatable
Been there. Haha