Your chest starts to tighten, and you feel yourself getting colder. Your hands are clammy and you feel weak. You don’t feel the tears anymore, the ones streaming down your face. You think about everything in life you’ve ever done and you wonder what would’ve happened had you acted differently. You sit down on the ground against a wall, you feel yourself pushing into it… but you don’t realize it. You can’t stop it. You don’t fully understand what set you off this time, but it was probably something small. You usually keep everything bottled up inside. That’s not good, everyone tells you. Random parts of your body start to hurt. You want to cry out for help, but you know you can’t. Or you know what they’ll say. You get tired.. and you lose motivation to do anything. You try to breathe but your lungs feel like they’re filled with water. This goes on for at least 10 minutes…
If you’ve never had a panic attack or an anxiety attack, you may think this is just a poem. Maybe a short story excerpt. It’s not just a poem or story. It’s what happens to me and so many others when you get so stressed… so anxious, that you just can’t function.
So yeah, I am happy, and I am fine, but this just happens sometimes. You learn to deal with it. Sometimes you share with a friend what’s going on. Sometimes you sit all alone. Sometimes it’s only 10 minutes. Other times it’s a whole day. Everyone and every time is different. Sometimes you don’t even know why you’re “over-reacting” so much. You can’t control it.
I wish I could control it. I’m trying… Really.
Stay strong, guys. Breathe. ♥
I have a friend, she’s not the happiest.
I try, and I try to cheer her up. To show her life. To show her happiness. Not much works. But then I remember my times, times like September 18, 2012. Times like when I wrote this poem.
Can you drown yourself in a desert?
Yes. You could.
You could drown of depression.
With a fake smile on your face,
While in reality your heart wants to die.
Crying for help on the inside,
Helping everyone else on the outside.
Trying to stay happy,
While being eaten away deep inside your soul.
That fake smile,
That fake laugh,
Covering up that all-too-real truth.
Nobody notices you,
Nobody can tell.
You’re scared to speak out,
Afraid to be truly be heard.
You’ve been hurt too much,
So you’ve learned to stay low.
To keep away from society,
To fake that smile,
Unlike speaking your mind.
So, I try to remember the times I wasn’t… me… when I talk to her. I realize I was once like her. Sad, afraid, unconfident (well.. I still am— a little), and just… depressed.
I try to help her.. but it never seems to work. Maybe she’ll realize.. I hope.
Last year, I did a writing prompt where you flip to random pages of a book I was reading. This book was The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. I wasn’t really a fan of the book, but it made me think about… life.
The words I ended with for the prompt were:
With no further ado, the poem I wrote-
I’m in a room.
I’m in a lousy mood,
My voice is shaky.
I have nothing left,
Except for what I’ve been carrying on my back.
I keep apologizing to myself, to my demons.
I’d never knew I’d be a killer.
A killer of hopes, dreams, love.
Never thought I’d be capable of being one who kills.
I’m going to hell.
I should’ve never left her.
I honestly forgot I wrote this. It must have been during a darker time of last year. Probably spring, I don’t much like spring.
Going back, reading this poem, feels odd. I can still feel the feeling I put in to the words. I can still feel the teacher questioning my sanity.
But then again, who actually is normal?
This was, once again, written in February 2015.
What draws the line between art and vandalism?
Where does art end, and vandalism begin?
Are the two even related?
Vandalism, as defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary, is “action involving deliberate destruction of or damage to public or private property”.
Art, as defined by the same source, is “the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power”.
Graffiti doesn’t do destruction or damage to personal or public property. It doesn’t do permanent destruction. It can be removed, if you so wish. It is, as the definition suggests, it’s an expression.
Nature is considered “art” quite often, but what is your building to nature? Is your building vandalizing the art of nature? Art shows expression in the concrete jungle we live in today.
I wrote this poem in 2014, a time I felt invisible. A time I felt nothing would get better. But, it did. I no longer feel invisible all the time, and I found my happiness in the world. Nevertheless, enjoy the poem.
I am an invisible person.
I try to speak up, but no one hears me.
I try to stand out, but all I do is stand in a corner.
I stand away from the crowd.
Some people judge me silently, others judge me aloud.
I want to cry, but I can’t.
I’m past crying.
I’m in tears as I stand alone, walk alone, sit alone.
I’m falling apart, slowly crumbling away.
Nobody seems to notice.
Nobody seems to care.
I dream one day to be like her, with all her friends.
But today, I am not.
Tomorrow, I will not be.
I am an invisible person, and no one wants to see me.
No one wants to see the real me.
This was written by me in the February of 2015.
I opened my eyes, and stared around me in disbelief. The old city was completely unrecognizable. There was debris everywhere. Dust covered tents, buildings, shelters. The dreary smile of a sun trying to shine through the clouds of smoke. It wasn’t the same. I looked to my left and saw one of my brothers fallen at my side. I looked to my right, and saw another brother severely injured, holding his leg in pain. I looked down at myself. I realized I’d been hit, there was blood coming from my thigh. Why didn’t I feel it? Was I that numb? Would I feel ever again? I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry. I had to be strong. I moved to my brother beside me, the one holding his leg. He was my wingman, my best friend. I reached for my bag, only to find that it had ripped. Everything was gone. I took my shirt, and tied it tightly around his calf. He winced in pain, and smiled. A genuine smile of thanks. He took his knife and cut the fabric of my pants, and made a tourniquet out of it. I lost all feeling in my leg. I shed a single tear, wiped away by my brother. “These things we do” he whispered in my ear. “That others may live” I whispered back. We helped each other up, leaning our weight on one another. “Let’s go help some people” I chuckled dryly, still limping. I wouldn’t give up. We wouldn’t give up.