Arts + Entertainment
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Where Children Go
You know those places that only children know? The nooks and cranny’s; the hideaways that grown-ups don’t think about? That’s where imagination lives.
Sammi NashPublished 7 years ago in PoetsSocial Anxiety
Social anxiety is like a thief, stealing away my identity until I am no longer a person, just a shell where the anxiety hides, whispering my fears like a tainted lullaby. It's words are sweet poison dripping from an IV and flowing through my veins at an unstoppable speed. It's there on my dark days, on my bright days. It is the friend that has overstayed their welcome who you cannot seem to budge, the weight on my chest I can't seem to dislodge. It claws it's way up my throat and out my mouth as I sob into the pillow wondering for the thousandth time why I seem so different from everyone else. It is the monster in my closet, the one that no matter how many locks I put on the door it still seeps through, like a hazy mist across my vision turning my every day tasks into twisted versions of reality. It is the obstacle I must climb over, sapping my energy like hungry plant roots suck the moisture from the soil until my body is nothing but a desert of emotions, waiting for the rain that will never come. It is like a roller coaster that I did not wish to board, only it never crests that peak, only climbing higher so I get the tiniest glimmer of hope just to slip back down that same hill and begin again. It is a dark room with no doors and no escape and I am it's prisoner. I am no longer identified as a person but as the disorder that consumes me. Hello. My name is Social Anxiety.
Autumn BestPublished 7 years ago in PoetsPeaceful
The sun is shining brightly, refracting off the green-brown waves of the river in a blinding fashion. The wind is blowing softly, causing the halyards to clang loudly against the mast, the flag to flap absentmindedly, and my hair to shift ever so slightly around my relaxed face. The wind carries several strange, yet familiar and comforting scents; the sharp, piercing smell of the gasoline and diesel at the fueling station and the greasy stench coming from the vents behind the kitchen at the clubhouse that make my stomach rumble in anticipation. The wind carries other things too, not just scents and feelings, but comforting sounds as well. Familiar sounds like the elderly couple a few boats down, quietly conversing, their affection for each other easily distinguishable in their tones, and the occasional metallic clang or wooden bang coming from the repair shop a few hundred meters away. The water sloshes gently against the side of the boat, flowing with the current of the harbor and excited by the passing boats. This also causes the boat itself to rock and the rubber bumpers protecting the sides to squeak quietly. Mom is moving around below, humming quietly to herself, the sounds of the old wooden cabinets and drawers occasionally creaking open and closed. I feel relaxed here. But when we take the boat out, gliding gracefully down the river and being pulled along by the wind like an eager dog pulling its owner towards the park; I feel truly at peace. Under sail, I enjoy the feeling of fighting against the wind to rapidly pull the sails into the correct position and listening to the click-clack of the winches, as they’re cranked, the plastic casing on the lever cracked from years of use. Here, for a period of time, I’m not me anymore. I’m not the friendly fitting room attendant at Winner’s or a bubbly grade 12 student. I just am. It’s my favourite place to just… exist, without the categories of everyday life.
Emily PartelloPublished 7 years ago in PoetsPomegranate Sex
You crack me open, Like a pomegranate. Pull at the warm flesh. Lick at what is within. Dig the fingers and tongue in. Rip 'til
Ellen McAllisterPublished 7 years ago in PoetsI Believe...
To feel the pain... I have to believe... Being left behind... Being by my side... To feel the pain... I have to believe...
Anna ChristianPublished 7 years ago in PoetsI Before Me, Except After Be
I am, though not now, as I was, sat looking over slimed frogs, in their pools of pond, hopping and jumping and living as they see fit. I hear softly birds chime from afar as creaking branches and sodden leaves in squidgy mud remind me peacefully, as I might add, of the gracious satisfaction that life gives to us in its finest decor. Time and myself roll by like the wind, as I toil between picking up irksome litter and avoiding uninvited dangers. When, and to my surprise, a three-legged rodent, scurrying out of the browned waters leaving its tail in tow, pursues life as it is and how it always has. Having noticed that I am there, it darts steadfast out of sight, through nettles and other living leaves, and so I know why he runs. As I have done before from the overwhelming existence of higher power, disbelief and conflict, too tiny to comprehend an eclectic universe full of unknown wonder and splendour. While back in my place, I look out over my beautiful brook and smile contentedly at the glistening drops of moisture hanging to the brook like the hand of a small girl crossing a busy road with her mother, and it knows not why I too am scared of it. Resplendent magnificence ensconces me and my fellow dark oak trees, and form a tranquil getaway for an eye-baller with too much to require. In a sense, like I had expressed to be free, I know my weakness stems from purpose. Which is how I came to know. Just as life knew too, I am here to observe, as well as life of me. Ascending through the exploration of limitless discord uniformity, where sentience derives, past any evolution, as much from action as from word. An infinite loop entangling creation and definition into a singular explanation, that is true for its time and already outdated by an incremental velocity of discovery.
S R GurneyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Mind's Pollution
Skies are clouded, covered in shades of gray The darkness blocks out the light of day, I guess that's a metaphor of our minds,
Autumn BestPublished 7 years ago in PoetsAmerican Screen
You look in your mirror, And you hate what you see. But you look at your phone's screen And you love who you appear to be.
Grace HarwoodPublished 7 years ago in Poets