There is great power here.
Depression and anxiety
Encompass more than sadness,
and racing heartbeats.
It’s missed deadlines,
drawn blinds to block the sun,
prayers to make it to dawn.
It’s lying in the fetal position,
drowning in a sea of tears.
It’s succumbing to grief
And the lies it sometimes tells.
holding you down.
It’s searching for answers
at the bottom of the bottle
when you sometimes hate
the taste of air.
But it doesn’t have to be permanent.
Your strength is stronger
than that which holds
You know the taste of
resilience and perseverance.
It’s as sweet as
the sun when
You finally step outside
and she kisses
You have touched hearts
with your bravery,
when they realize
they are not alone.
The stigma is fear’s best friend.
Don’t let it paralyze you.
This world has
hands to hold,
With journeys and
Similar to your own.
You, beautiful soul, are never alone.
© Sarah Jean Bowers 2017
Sarah Jean Bowers is a poet, old soul, and resilient warrior.
At the age of eight, she lost her mother in a tragic car accident. She self-medicated with poetry and began to put words to the feelings that held her down. Twenty years later her father died in an accident. She attempted to soldier through, but PTSD and anxiety forced her to take a step back, slow down, and start to heal her wounds. She listened to her body and finally took the time she needed to find steady ground and a purpose to live her life to the fullest.
Our shadows danced
the fire like savages
before a kill, unaware
that our souls
were their prey.
without inhibitions or regard
we danced on.
The flames licked
our heathen heels, scorching
flesh long into the night.
The way we moved bled
fevers through seared skin
the smells of our filth
upon the air,
beckoning the scavengers.
And still, we danced on.
The way our demons swayed
together taunted the flames
to burn hotter, and the darker
the dance became, the more
we yearned to feel cracked
and burned flesh
flake from our bodies
as they drew even
more from us.
We disturbed the beat
of blackened hearts pounding.
Grinding with the rhythm
of charged pulses, we howled.
The strange tongues thick
in our mouths, provocation
to summon the monster.
It sat quietly
watching us like
it knew us
well, the beast.
It had sold us
The foreign eyes watched
with red stained hate
and envious jealousy
dripping from their lips;
they did not know
they were wrong.
We would consume
them, these monsters
Our shadows swung
our hips, lunging
into howling mouths
panting for our taste.
them, the devils
feasting upon each other,
chasing souls into the flames.
The beast smiled. And still,
we danced on.
© SeA 2017
© Nicole Lyons 2017
I received a card stating this a few years ago and found it amusing enough to become my birthday theme. I am not really prone to random profane statements on my own.
Do not even think about asking me how old I am. I would never tell you, anyway. I am young enough to be reckless and take crazy chances―but old enough to make fairly good choices when necessary.
I an quite practiced at creating my own birthday celebrations. Ten days after Christmas is not the most opportune day for people to get into a festive party mood. My family still gives me gifts wrapped in Christmas paper. Most of my friends forget this day is my birthday. I certainly do not blame them. Enough already with the holidays this time of year. I can always picture the thought bubbles above my brothers’ heads, “Oh, gawd, it’s her birthday. We need to do something.” Actually just leaving me by myself to run amuck is a good something to me. I crave the solace of selfish days alone with no responsibilities or obligations. Although I will admit to wishing for a summer birthday when I was a kid.
But I like my birthday now. To me, it represents the start of a new year. A blank canvas effect. A chance to have some do-overs from the previous year and an opportunity to think of lofty goals for the next year. Most years I say I am going to become a prolific writer. There are an infinite amount of stories inside me all waiting for their turn to be told. Some years I ponder a book.
Last year I painted some of my best pieces, this year I’m going to paint even more. I am also going to:
▪Be kinder to others.
▪Nurture my friendships.
▪…and have much more patience with my aging mother.
On this fine birthday I am going to sleep in, take a nap, eat my favorite foods, and buy myself a few presents that I probably cannot afford. This would be the reckless me.
Because today is my godamm birthday.
© Dori Owen 2017
Dori Owen is an infamous artist, writer, zealous activist and admitted Crazy Girl. She is a columnist on Feminine Collective and an editor on the The Lithium Chronicles. All she wants is a pony for her birthday. To read more of Dori’s brilliant words, check out her column on Feminine Collective.
Tiny stories crawl beneath her skin.
Sometimes they breathe love from her heart,
dropping kisses from her soul
and other times they drag sadness
through her core and stay hidden
behind her eyes.
Until the memories find their way inside,
exploding the tears through the blue,
through the brown, puncturing the disguise
of whatever color her chameleon soul told
her to be; self-preservation comes in many shades,
and hers happens to be beautiful, with or without
a smile, because there are many stories to hold
when the ink is born from your blood.
Bursting tall tales
from ink smeared lips; she holds
her stories close. Suffering
the burn of words left unsaid scorched
into her spirit.
She spills her secrets onto deaf souls
and she aches,
to open her own to eyes
that would finally read her.
I often ran my hand, down her back,
from her neck, to the tip of her vertebrae.
A smooth perfection, the way the light
glistened off of her scales. I admired
the way she used her tongue; sexy how
it flickered, tasting the air. Constrictive,
how she could disengage her jaws,
and swallow me whole. Docile at times,
basking in the sun, but we both slithered
in darkness. Her blood frigid, she still
needed warmth to survive. I allowed her
to coil up, in my heart, and find refuge
from the elements of the world.
As I knew, nature would eventually
run its’ course………..she struck.
With deep holes in my soul,
and my veins burning,
toxin pumped straight to my heart.
I took the pain, and embraced the burn,
for I too had frosted feelings.
Now all that remains, is crumbs of her skin,
and the scars of a love…….once deadly.
© N.R.Shepherd 2016
You can pray if you want, but God’s not here this evening. ….It’s just you and I under this pale moonlight, dancing… N.R. Shepherd
I am thrilled to be featured on OTV Magazine again today with two poems. Have a peek at Sin Twister and Amnesia.
I am so pleased to welcome a new face (from our Facebook page) to TLC today.
We all have our days
The days we don’t see coming
Where everything that can go wrong
Seems to go wrong
Or maybe just one really shitty thing
That makes the rest of the day crappy regardless
& we let those days break us
Strip us of all hope
Reconsider all the other little shitty things going on
Let them all add up
Let them weight us down
We help ourselves into a down fall
Open the door for ourselves, to misery
Invite it right in
Yesterday was one of those days for me
& I can still feel some of it lingering with me
Threatening to drag me back down
Wanting my mind to wander to feeling sorry for myself
Wanting me to wallow & cry
Wanting to make me feel bitter & angry
Wanting me to scream that “its not fair”
But ya wanna know what?
I’m still here
Still living, breathing, carrying on with my day
& yeah maybe, that doesn’t really make things better
The emotions are still valid
& its still unfair
But I think we tend to forget
Just how many of these days we’ve had before
That we are here now
At this point in life, cause we made it through them
They will pass
& better days will eventually follow
Great days even
Don’t let a bad day
Make you think its anymore than just that
© Mariah Yates 2016
Mariah is a 25 year old mother of two beautiful boys. She has been writing since elementary. She was diagnosed with depression and anxiety in her teens and uses her writing as an outlet, it helps her cope.
“I love when someone can relate to something I write. It tells me a lot about them & helps me realize I’m not alone in my struggles. I’d like to help end the stigma that surrounds mental illness and to just share some of the chaos in my mind.” – Mariah Yates
I often forget how damaged I am, bluffing my way through life with an over rehearsed self confidence to hide my vulnerabilities. But when I am reminded, all the tiny broken pieces of me stab the back of my eyes and my rebel heart raises its hackles like a frightened cat. Fragments of my dusty soul attack itself from the inside out and crawl underneath my skin leaving splinters of bad memories to poison my veins once more. The bitter taste of someone else’s words hit the back of my mouth like a swarm of bees building their hive, making a new home as a lump in my throat that can’t decide if it needs to come up or go down. Then my swollen tongue licks away the memory of a resisted kiss hiding upon honey bee lips, stinging from the thoughts swirling in my arteries, turning my heartbeat into a drum kit at a rock and roll concert. The face of the drummer is blurry, buried deep in the stillness of my mind, his drumsticks have metal blades, held to my neck to hold me still. Arms pinned to the cold ground where he gave me these nightmares. But no, I will not allow the echoes of reality to play out their song. No, I will not be dragged again to that dark alleyway. No, the word written on my face that night, no, two letters embossed upon my skin left bruised and aching. No, a little word not understood by so many.
I will grab hold of these sharp edges of painful memories and use them to carve a path straight to my dreams.
© Michelle Schaper 2016