Scars make martyrs and monsters.
Idolizing the villains who were yesterday’s anti-heroes
Waiting for them to burn their capacity to create.
The angels burn brightly, softly, sensationally,
To follow chaotically into a second fall.
Exactly as dulcetly as they first sang,
They clash crassly against some new foe,
But the only ones standing in their way
Are the ones burning as brightly as they.
We belong
Like miscellaneous trinkets tossed
Into an unlabeled jar.
Without a splendid wrapping,
We search out our commonalities and raise them
As a standard to be adored.
Screaming in unison
We demand our due affection
From behind the congealed lace of neglected projections.
For our beauty’s recognition
We chose to betray the odds and ends
Whose identities unveiled our jar’s lack of meaning.
Magic black and silver Cadillacs
Carry us effortlessly out of the city
In singing groups of five and six
Towards the field of endless sunset.
Barefooted, we saunter the soft grass,
As cool as the humid air that’s ambling
Through the bushes of lavender, sage, and chamomile
Surrounding the bonfires and fountains in odd corners.
The fires are hazy but bright,
And the waters seem to play a melody.
Keeping our eyes open causes the faintest strain
That intoxicates us evenly through every moment.
The crowds continue gathering
And soon the fairies are hovering between us,
Fluttering and dancing in silent revelry
To the beat of wings, water, and flame.
Wherever you move it stays the same
But the faces and voices endlessly change.
Every action you make costs nothing to take
And each weightless breath draws you in further.
There’s a time but no age,
No history and no needs,
It opens up only a sconed
And invites us to escape eternity.
I sip and think,
Drink, play something simple,
And dream my day dry.
Always talking in invented memories
Between us, our friends, and in secret.
Maybe your face
Has become the placeholder
For someone I never knew but needed.
Maybe I loved
Someone too intensely
Without extending it.
I never picture us having sex anymore,
But I can’t help imagine us being intimate.
We should pretend we just met,
And become friends again
With better experience.
I want to brew a cup of tea
And let it go cold,
Forgetting it amid our busy hands
And lips consoling one another.
The rain spatter on the window
Being the only sound
To accompany our growing hunger
In the darkness of our room.
Lighting flashes throw light
In our eyes and against our bodies
As thunder breaks
Like the sudden quiver of a pleasant touch.
The storm pummels on and on,
And we’re drawing each other out
Until we’ve consumed every drop
And we drown into sleep, solemnly spent.
When the weight of a thousand deaths
Becomes clearer to you,
It reveals how narrowly we think
Of our life’s disposition.
The film-like determinist bewichment of
Glossy-eyed observance
Upsets and dissipates like snuffed flames
At nature’s assertion.
Travelers return from their dreams
To waking isolation
And open their eyes to an absurd reality
If only for a few moments.
With respect to life and death,
And the consciousnesses thereof,
Look into the mouth of darkness
We’re apart of.
Disease, it must be said,
May be more human than some humans.
That our entirety can be so fragile
Is our consistent condition.
When we remember our narratives
Are ours and ours alone,
The one we share demands consent
To have our comforts overrode.
In the busy days of Death,
What comes will prove our honesty,
And our actions will project
Our real characters into history.
Considering who and what we are,
The choices we’ve elected to embody,
What follows is the shadow of ourselves
And our inherited responsibility.
Impositions of misfortune
Are the most substantial opportunity
To engage with life’s true quality,
And for me to say I love you.
Hello everyone. My poem “The Girl On The Floor” was recently published in the first issue of Necro Magazine. The theme of this issue is “Death.” There’s a lot of unique and interesting work in here from all kinds of artists. Check it out below.
A ghost behind the moon
Dulcetly laments the passage of time,
Every stroke of luck or doom,
Fate and death imbued in lullaby.
Sometimes it’s all I want to listen to
A song sadder and more beautiful than you
As beautiful as you are in dysfunctional splendor
Something even worse feels so much better.
Versus of cruelty and tragedy
Burning softly beneath unsettled feelings.
Distant narratives of epic abstraction
Quieting the immediate vacuity of complacency.
What makes us happy?
Well, what gets us through the day?
Little things,
Compliments and memes,
Dreaming for the future
And sleeping next to someone sweet?
And what makes it work?
What makes the meaning maker?
Money and jobs,
Resources and transactions,
Decisions, directions,
And the endless need for labor?
What does it mean?
Weren’t we making it last verse?
Something that we earn,
Something we’re still learning,
A fantasy or a needed story,
A reason to keep it going
And to believe we have worth.
They cross and collide,
Meanings, means, and distractions.
Moving more apart
And then again together,
More despair and satisfaction.
Movement made momentous by the mind,
Our language for a moment’s passion?
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.
Download here as a PDF.
Or order as a paperback from Barnes & Noble or Amazon.
