Offically Alone
No Hymns When I’m Gone
Officially alone; anxiety traps me inside myself. I'm a writer who writes stories and yet I’m without a story. I'm resistant to opening the loudness of my speechlessness, these naked pages reject me as my head is stuck in a vortex of unhealed behaviours. My soul appears to be held captive, suffering in the pit of my ego, born and made to suffer. Perhaps the afterlife thought to return and repeat a life again through the human instrument. I don't believe in god nor do I kneel for a cross, so do not sing your hymns when I'm gone.
~ H a y t h a m
T r u e h e a r t
About the Creator
Haytham Trueheart
Melanesian Anglo-Celtic Aussie POET (Masig + Kiwai) On Vocal Media I write about mental health, trauma, poverty, suicide, struggle street, authenticity and healing.
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If I Could Change My Age
Dear Universe, Innocent tears pierce my losing smile. Only if I could change my age to suit society’s fears or shame, I would sprint twice as fast than to change my name. I’m muddled in this sudden blow of frustration drowning in this why? Why did life decide to punish my birth with a date a few years late? I thought love was ageless, I thought the soul was the face, I thought logical and emotional transparency was the focus? Not a number society strapped on me with temporary labels. If I am to kiss the dirt in return of my death, why would society stare at me when I’m happy most? If those who love me embodied that feeling in its entirety, acceptance would fly again. Only if I could change my number to meet her wishes, only if I could race the years ahead to fulfil her worries, maybe I could meet her standards and honour her as the heaven upon my throne. I would challenge God to swear on my breath that for this numbering brand I wear, I’ve matured in my skin. But it matters not while we sleep in this invisible cage called age. It is a pain I can’t dispel despite I’ve prayed. My love suffers. And then I’ve learned, in my traditional village age is not a number it is content of character and how one chooses to lead the past into the future. This concept of age and identity play evaporates at the shores of my island. And as my elder told me “My boy, knowledge blo you wagbout pass, you wagbout behind.” That my knowledge walks first, and I walk behind. That wisdom does not shed upon the branded age, but the intensity of day to day circumstances. That knowledge is built upon resilience, humility, and determination, carrying the amplification of my merits which judges my age beyond the number my heart had been given. Oh universe, if I could change my age for her, I would sell my soul to the ends of time and free the genie from the bottle. As my mentor says “If it works, it works. No explanation required.”
By Haytham Trueheartabout a month ago in Poets
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis6 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Go out in nature😄🩷 it will help healing.