Issue one of The Creative Truth is out now! You can download a free PDF version, or support the journal by buying an even cooler print version! The print version is only £3.99 and you can get 25% off by using code AUG2016 at the checkout until 24th August! Thank you so much for your support – I’m really happy with how the first issue has turned out, and honoured that so many writers chose to share their stories with us.
Page 26 of 45
‘easy, easy’
they say,
when nothing is easy
and my eye welcomes
the comfort of my
fingertip
and says this is a
pressing matter
and I’ve buried myself in bricks
for days
hard thoughts
heavy thoughts
thoughts that leave no room for
anything else at all
and I sink
and I sink
and my thoughts are nothing but
this
and the day comes that
I’ve been waiting for
and I’m going alone
like I wanted
but didn’t want
and it happens
and it’s okay
probably
maybe
and it’s over
and just like that
the bricks are gone
I’m still on my own
but comfortably so
and I can stand
and there is light
air all around
no dusk or dawn
just like a switch
midnight to midday sun
and everything feels fine –
until next time.
Want a quick 60 second read (ish)? Here’s a little interview with me about writing poetry, inspiration, and advice. 🙂
http://www.adamlevonbrown.org/interview-with-sam-rose/
the cold glass on my wet bottom lip
my top lip enveloping – and then I tip
the scent stings my nostrils and
my teeth welcome it
head goes back
a slow swallow
and the roof
of my mouth
goes numb
the taste
is blunt
and then
nothing
matters
anymore.
maybe I am a mess
but I love these
nights.
A stream of conciousness I just found in my notes and probably wrote at work:
We write to stay afloat. I could talk to someone but I don’t even know what I would say anymore. I am no longer coherent, I have inherited
something I cannot give back, in body and mind, in thought and many unkind ways. where have the days gone that I once knew, those peaceful, carefree, relaxed days when everything was almost always okay? Who do I talk to now? I don’t even know what I would say that would be worth the energy, worth other people hearing, worth enduring their concerned faces, as all traces of me fade away, even those alive in the minds of others. All I can say is I’m sorry I can’t and I don’t know and I don’t know.
Having PTSD – or anxiety, or whatever the hell this is – is like lugging a big heavy suitcase around with you all day, but it seems to be invisible to everyone else and you’re shouting at them in your head, “Why can’t you see this thing?!” But you don’t dare say it out loud in case the suitcase really is all in your head and your friends and family think you’re crazy and making a big deal out of nothing, or just attention seeking or trying to get sympathy. Experience has already taught you there are wrong people to try to talk to about it, so you keep your luggage to yourself and hope one day it becomes lighter, and someone sees it and says “are you okay with all of that?” And then you can finally say “No. Thank you for asking about it. I am not okay right now.” After days, weeks, months of lying, you will finally have found a chance to tell the truth. “No, I’m not okay, and this is a bit heavy, actually.” And then someone might give you a luggage trolley, or something. And things will be easier. I hope. Because I don’t even know where to find a luggage trolley.
