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Psychalgia Exhumed: A Poetry Book

A collection of 20 poems by Sanya E Walma.
Sometimes our potential for growth and our ability to understand ourselves is buried beneath internalized fears and repressed feelings.
Untying the mental knots that distort our true selves requires the willingness to embrace our most intimate anxieties.
This collection of poetry is based on unearthing innermost troubles, finding beauty behind emotional disorder, and learning to express oneself honestly.

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Bio-phobia

Biology is a beautiful spectacle 
Beautiful, but tyrannical 
Brutal by any measurement 
Breaking, constantly, and re-arranging Itself, bit-by-bit, spiraling towards Infinity where it meets death
Partially or fully,
Where I wonder why we're still going 
Or whether what's gone
Is worse than what's still living,
The fear of loss and of existing
Dialectically breathing dust into awareness.
Soft, shifting dust
Puzzled out perpetually into pieces
So nothing stays complete.
Not brains nor bodies,
As nature clamours to dig deep
And pull us through this twister
Whether or not we comprehend.

This House Was Always Haunted

If you can find it, 
I dare you to look inside

The black house on a hill
Where three suicides were survived,

The remnants of their pain
Reach vapourously for a light

To expose their nakedness,
And the hollowness of their eyes.

If you're nearby,
Why not chance a look?

The forgotten undead
Would be glad to have known you.

There are fantastic stories 
Hidden under the splintered floors,

Romances and tragedies
That you could be part of.

Why not have tea
With a dysfunctional malevolence?

The eyes that inspect 
Every movement, chill, and hush,

Have a hunger for your love,
You devotion, your affection

And a hatred for pain,
And the gentleness of touch.

She's wrapped up in sheets,
In the bedroom, where she lived

Still hungry, still aching,
Still decaying from inside.

This Halloween, you should go,
She'll be delighted

To find the Haunted House
Is where she has always resided.








Cup of Midnight

There's a bitter black tea 

At my favorite cafe,

Wormwood black, like a poisonous 

Dark chocolate,

That I like to guzzle on a

Wet, windy day;

So perfectly perverse, so warm and

Tingley to my pallette.

When October turns cold and my

Temper turns brittle,

Solace seems as off as the

Sweetness of Spring.

Shedding the skin of a 

Wiltering flower,

The crow and the raven within me

Must sing.

Like showers of kisses, with hints of

Smoke and ripe cherries,

And passions pulling thick as wads

Of black licorice, 

I'll fall, diving down with you 

Into dust,

And die in the moment to make

Everything perfect.

Born In A Storm

I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.

Falling For …

Cool, quiet,and still mornings; alone.
A chord striking, resonating, and going silent.
Pale light still warm enough to touch faces.
A pit in your stomach, nowhere to go.

Fall, fall, September;
Autumn sadness, stillness, 
Peace and horror.
Burning, burning, bonfires and leaves;
Passions singing, sang, and then falter.

You'll never know their love again.
The sky is beautiful, blissful, and so are you.

Softer, Deeper,

As beautiful as it is to cry,
It cuts so softly so much deeper
Since I gave up faking
And started listening to your whisper

Its smoother going down
But gets me so much faster now,
Those feelings that I'd missed
And that I pretended missed me somehow





Apples & Honey

Her every word is something sweet.
She speaks so sensibly and smiles,
And cares like caring is a treat
Too tempting to stay away from.

To taste her mind would nourish you,
And reason out those foolish tricks
That frightened you into pushing away
The parts of you you're missing.

And beauty hardly describes her face;
The life, the light behind her eyes
That permeates in any place
She goes to be alive in. 

She's sweet enough to drown in,
To swallow down until you're sick. 
It's hard to put the bottle down
When it insists you drink it.

Apples and honey make a snack
So tempting its hard to turn away.
As one should never lack for love,
Having lacked, it still gives me stomach pains.

Love Spelled With A Capital “E”

 Men, women, and persons;
You enigmas of violence, misery, sex, and boredom;
 How are you feeling?

To what end is your violence?
To what depth does your misery brood?
What comfort have you found in sex?
What madness does your boredom uproot?

If you're honest, I would guess, every answer, some way, stems from  love.
Acknowledge this with me if you expect my intimacy.

A Lovely Little Death

This is Death, my infinite pastime,

My plaything, my dalience.

It fucks me breathlessly into the great unknown,

And spits me out, and leaves me there.

God help us, goddamnit!

It wasn’t enough to make us feel alive?

To make us suffer so we want to feel alive?

We inherit a lust for beauty and are demanded to close our eyes?

What depth there is in darkness could never be enough.

Is it ever sweet enough to sleep? Well,…

Yes.

It is, sometimes,…

When I go to bed exhausted, my sleep screams with delight.

And the more I romaticise, the more attractive it seems.

So at the end of the day, I only hope that I’m weary,

Not from toil, or troubles, but from the ecstasy of a brilliant party.