Category: Poetry

How Poetry Frees Me From Suffering

How Poetry Frees Me From Suffering

Author: Sophia Falco Poetry is what grounds me. I believe in this realm of poetry that I have complete control which is ever so important for me as an individual affected by bipolar disorder for nearly a decade. I have control over my pen and paper (or my laptop and...

Stigma…

Stigma…

Stigma a small six letter word, But blocks the way; Too unconfident to be heard. You beastly biased blighted word, You block the light you’re so absurd.   Stigma stands blocking our path, Scared alone or scared they’ll laugh. You disgust me with your...

Poem: BEAT LIFE

Poem: BEAT LIFE

Life is like a treasure hunt. We keep searching for the answers to unlock mysteries presented to us by life. We are always on a wild goose chase thinking we are nearing the key that will unravel the mystery, and we end up with another puzzle on our hands. A few lucky...

Poem: Admission Into Hospital

Poem: Admission Into Hospital

The bangs of my head felt somewhat hollow against the cold hospital walls, for some odd reason, everything feels cold here. The cold grasp of the nurses hands as she tried to comfort me back to sanity. But dear God, what IS sanity in it’s most organic form? Is it like...

Poem: Madness

Poem: Madness

The vile potion of madness struck her like a lightening bolt gone astray. For what are we more than but a misty cloud roaming the night sky in the search for a shining star to give us the light and hope we are forever searching for. She walks the streets alone, every...

Poem: An Open Letter To The Hurting Souls

Poem: An Open Letter To The Hurting Souls

To all the hurting souls, My leaps and twirls; do they travel to you? That enduring energy flowing through the crisp air; do you eat it? When it rains, my dear, I dance in it. I laugh as the rain drops fall upon my nose. Do you feel the rhythm transcend through my...

Poem: The Warrior

Poem: The Warrior

She rubbed her pretty little eyes with cold clenched fists, and collapsed to her knees in angst and defeat on the cold and dust plagued cement. There was dust everywhere, it seemed, in every fraction of the air there was at least 10 million dust particles filling the...

The Wooden Heart

The Wooden Heart

Our hearts are packed with medicine, our eyes are blinded of dismay and anguished distance between life itself and the voices in our minds that tell us not to try, not to live, not to survive. The doctors tattoo a label upon our head that feeds itself into our blood...

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