survival hits different for every being on this earth adults and children kept and free animals even our beloved planet facing physical hardships whether risking living with little food or minuscule comfort or none at all whether beat into submission before they could find their voice or any number of unbearable situations through no other reason than a perfect storm coming together by chance life’s variables colliding just because those unlucky enough to always be on the end of surviving the punishments doled out by indiscriminate and unfortunate circumstances or by forceful, living monsters created by an evil social consciousness insinuating their vileness into the vulnerable lives of the innocent
shriek into the void dark shadows shatter, dissolve still empty inside
alone in abyss my screams no longer echo finally absorbed
a soul-touching croon expands to vast crescendo calls me back to life
clasped closely – I do not wish to escape held by darkness – his cold embrace, a refuge he lives – because of my blood I am not yet dead – he needs me alive
docile, I submit ecstasy, then sudden pain give myself freely
moonlit muscles enfold me metallic kisses drown me
you cannot live without me I need you to sustain me
what have you woken in the embers of my soul – dark flame of your heart
with an attitude as bad as my boots, I strut, swagger and sneer – untouchable bite me! killing for sheer adrenaline no emotion this side of death; why should I care?
no one hears me therefore I do not exist pale ghost in shadow
I step out into sunlight erupt in blaze of glory
Freya Pickard is the author of The Kaerling series, an epic fantasy. She writes mainly fantasy tales and creates poetry in order to rest the prose side of her brain. She finds her inspiration in the ocean, beautifully written books, and vinyl music (particularly heavy metal and rock). Freya was featured twice in The Short of It – May 2020 and October 2020. Her piece, Sailing, featured in the first anthology – was selected for the Pushcart Prize.
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the light slowly leaving dolor creeping into this blank space in my head swallowed up in this ever-deepening gray haze minimizing my liveliness pitch-blackness, my old friend, immobilizing me again no energy, desire, motivation or strength this thick sadness creates a loneliness where hope can’t creep in courage oozes away one drop after another of life leaking to somewhere it can’t return from goals left to die in the waves of this depression silent tears pitching between wet, heavy sobs an aching all-encompassing deep pain leaving invisible scars severe despondency and dejection i doubt life can go on it’s a reality in my head not worth living escape from that which continually pulls me down feels impossible this devastating extreme of the opposite of happy it feels like i’m stolen from me i feel over
Years of depression punctuated by obsessive creativity brought him closer to the inevitable. Alcohol became his chosen poison. Lacking the proper nutrition and suffering from frequent bouts of insomnia – it only propelled him deeper into the black abyss. The delusions which led to his self-mutilation only further supported the theory – he was mad, and he felt all alone.
He had lost everything of value to him. There was an empty canvas on the easel, his colors, and tools. What would he paint?
Nothing. He was at his self-inflicted end. “The sadness will last forever,” were Vincent’s final words.
and crushing loneliness
becomes my cage.
Fine is just perfect…
just a feeling
put on hold.
Nothing will ever
turn out finer…
The biology demons
a sinister lie.
One entrenched deep
in every nook
of me with every
not easily found. This
Trapped in my head,
a life controlled
not by me,
play out indiscriminately.
Controlling very little,
only breaking down.
to my end.