I'm a mess,
it's something I've been trying to address.
It's what I do best,
it just makes me more depressed.
*
I'm a mess,
constantly being swallowed by sadness.
I never know what to do,
I want to not always feel blue.
*
I'm a mess.
I must confess
I'm trapped in my ways
of feeling unhappy for days.
About the Creator
Rene Peters
I write what I know, usually in the form of poetry. I tend to lean towards mental health, epilepsy, and loss/grieving.
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More stories from Rene Peters and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
The Day the Heart Learned to Bow
The Day the Heart Learned to Bow For many years, Harun believed strength meant control. He controlled his time, his business, his emotions, and even his prayers. He prayed five times a day, never missed a fast in Ramadan, and gave charity when it was convenient. People respected him, and some even admired his discipline. Yet deep inside, Harun felt hollow, as if something essential was missing from his life.
By Imran Hossain7 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
I walk for hours, preferably somewhere quiet, and just listen to nature. Appreciating nature and its little messages of hope in the trees and flowers and open spaces. I hope that writing helps to ease the stress. Or just dance and sing out loud.
So SO relatable! Loved your poem!
I'm here if you need to talk. <3 Great poem
♥️