Mental Health
Tangled Quicksand
I reach for you through shifting ground, But every step pulls me deeper, Where echoes of anger coil around The whispered love I keep in secret. Your eyes are both anchor and abyss, A storm I cannot tame nor flee. The past and present intertwist, A future that refuses to be. I fight the pull of your memory, Yet find solace in the ache. Quicksand heart, wild and free, I sink willingly, yet awake. No bridge can span this fractured space, No word undo the tangled trace. Love and rage, a twisted dance, An impossible future caught in chance.
By Sahir E Shafqat6 months ago in Poets
The Way I Talk to Myself When No One’s Around
I don’t always feel worthless. It shows up in specific moments. When something goes wrong that shouldn’t have. When I say the wrong thing and hear it after it’s already out. When I can feel a shift in how someone looks at me and I can’t undo it. That’s when it starts. Not loud at first. Just a thought that lands and doesn’t leave. You did that. And then it builds. You always do that. You don’t learn. You don’t get it right. I don’t argue with it. That’s the problem. I treat it like it’s accurate. I start going through everything I’ve messed up. Not just recently. Everything. It lines up fast. Decisions I regret. Things I should have handled better. Moments I should have walked away. People I should have treated differently. People who left. That one hits the hardest. Because no matter how I explain it, the result is the same. They’re gone. So my brain does the math. If enough people leave, there has to be a reason. And the easiest answer is me. I tell myself I’m hard to deal with. That I’m too much in the wrong ways and not enough in the right ones. That people don’t stay because there’s nothing here worth staying for long-term. I don’t say that out loud. But I think it clearly. And once it’s there, everything starts to filter through it. If someone doesn’t text back, I don’t assume they’re busy. I assume they don’t want to. If someone pulls away, I don’t ask why. I decide I already know. If something goes wrong, I don’t look at the situation. I look at myself. What did I do. What did I miss. What does this say about me. It always says the same thing. That I’m the common denominator. That I am the problem. I don’t need anyone else to tell me that. I can get there on my own. And I do. Faster than anyone else ever could. That’s why being called a fuck up doesn’t shock me. It sounds familiar. Like something I already said first. And being unloved doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels like a conclusion. Not because no one has ever cared. But because I don’t trust that it lasts. Because I keep finding ways to prove that it won’t. So I stay in this place where I can see what I’m doing wrong in real time and I watch myself keep doing it. And then I use that as more evidence. That I know better and still don’t do better. Which must mean something is wrong with me at a level I can’t fix. That’s how it loops. Not all day. Not every second. But enough. Enough that when things go quiet that’s what I hear.
By Tifani Power 6 months ago in Poets
Sweetie Bird’s Beak-Moving Blues
Introduction: Sweetie Bird’s Beak-Moving Blues By Vicki Lawana Trusselli "I’ve heard the whispers in the writer's groups. I’ve seen the headlines. According to the internet, AI is currently busy plotting a global takeover while simultaneously stealing our creative souls. It’s a great script for a sci-fi thriller and having worked in the film industry, I know a good plot when I see one.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 6 months ago in Poets
