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Literature Text
My flesh is numbed by a dull, sorrowful ache;
A ringing, a reverberation of long-healed wounds.
Simple echoes of acute pain and suffering,
Muddled by and melded with agitation.
The vibration is constant, unending;
Spurred on by volatile worries.
The signal is utterly lost in the noise;
The words blur together and stain the page.
My nerves are frayed by the ever-present buzzing.
Droning, irreverent, incoherent wisps of thought;
They become moths to the flame of my anxiety,
Devouring my life's tapestry, leaving it ragged;
Riddled with weeping holes; and threadbare.
The white noise and the dreary, bleak darkness
Mix and mingle to form a seeping, grey sludge
Which drains into my empty skin and hollow bones.
It fills me with foreign energy; a morbid animation
Which approaches a state that might be called 'alive'.
The numbness is overwhelming.
So I ask of you only one thing:
Innervate, release me from this
Barren expanse of nothingness.
Stimulate my senses, give me
That jolt of life, that cold rush;
Dig the tendrils deep into my flesh,
So that it might feel once more
The soft embrace of friendship.
A ringing, a reverberation of long-healed wounds.
Simple echoes of acute pain and suffering,
Muddled by and melded with agitation.
The vibration is constant, unending;
Spurred on by volatile worries.
The signal is utterly lost in the noise;
The words blur together and stain the page.
My nerves are frayed by the ever-present buzzing.
Droning, irreverent, incoherent wisps of thought;
They become moths to the flame of my anxiety,
Devouring my life's tapestry, leaving it ragged;
Riddled with weeping holes; and threadbare.
The white noise and the dreary, bleak darkness
Mix and mingle to form a seeping, grey sludge
Which drains into my empty skin and hollow bones.
It fills me with foreign energy; a morbid animation
Which approaches a state that might be called 'alive'.
The numbness is overwhelming.
So I ask of you only one thing:
Innervate, release me from this
Barren expanse of nothingness.
Stimulate my senses, give me
That jolt of life, that cold rush;
Dig the tendrils deep into my flesh,
So that it might feel once more
The soft embrace of friendship.
Literature
the witch's house.
I want to be the home of whispers,
the house of dripping water and blooming
plants, the shelter of childish drawings
and books with broken spines; I want to
hear the gossiping mothers tell their gossiping
daughters how my home is full of fresh air and
the feeling of watching a sunrise in a new country.
The windows would all be open, gauzy and
bright curtains billowing in the breeze
the high rise would always have, and no door
would have a lock and some doorways would
have no door; music would drift to the
pavement below and everyone would hear
the crooning voices of men with diamonds for
teeth and the plucked strings of instruments that
Literature
Contest Entry - Darkness to Light
I stood in a hollow place. The world around me was in continuous flux. Moments of stasis would occur, until they were ruptured by chaos. Walls would surround me and then dissipate. I could see through them to the yards, cities, and oceans beyond.
Only one object remained static in this visage. A table in the center of a room would fluctuate in and out of existence. Atop it was the object. Solid and immobile. It drew my focus; begged for it.
Demanded it.
I took one step and the Earth beneath my feet shattered. But I stayed afloat. I took another. The emptiness of the aether surrounded me on all sides. Walls, cities, and oceans disappeared e
Literature
A Haunted Night
The last drop of black coffee fell into the pot of her coffee machine. She took it, impatiently poured the coffee into her cup. Then she returned to her desk, her hands shaking but now both wrapped around the warm cup with the picture of a little kitten on it.
It was dark outside. Cold. The wind was rustling the few leaves that still remained on the shadowy trees. She closed her eyes and pictured the cold on her skin, and the wet smell she loved about autumn. Rotting leaves, earth and wood. Frail white traces of frost on the ground in the earliest hours of morning.
She shivered and took a sip of coffee. It would warm her up from the insid
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The titular word for this poem popped up into my head, for some reason, followed by what I think is a pretty good concept (which is, obviously, explored in the poem), so I figured it needed to be written.
This piece details what I often feel like in periods of drawn out, mid level anxiety. The word "Innervate" means to supply an organ or tissue with nerves, which are the type of cells that communicate to the brain certain signals, which ultimately, when interpreted, constitute our senses. They also tell other cells what to do (muscle cells, for example, contract when signalled appropriately by a neuron), and are actually the same sort of cell which make up our brains themselves.
This is the first time I've done this, but I'd like to dedicate this poem to my best friend MissSoarrow, both for being basically what I picture within the last line of the poem, and for being one of the few people in the world who can make me feel genuinely happy, and break the numbness for a little while.
This piece details what I often feel like in periods of drawn out, mid level anxiety. The word "Innervate" means to supply an organ or tissue with nerves, which are the type of cells that communicate to the brain certain signals, which ultimately, when interpreted, constitute our senses. They also tell other cells what to do (muscle cells, for example, contract when signalled appropriately by a neuron), and are actually the same sort of cell which make up our brains themselves.
This is the first time I've done this, but I'd like to dedicate this poem to my best friend MissSoarrow, both for being basically what I picture within the last line of the poem, and for being one of the few people in the world who can make me feel genuinely happy, and break the numbness for a little while.
© 2014 - 2024 A-Wandering-Man
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Wow... I am in awe. 
This is just so beautiful. 
This is just so beautiful.