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.
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.
I’m tired of being Imoveably cold
But Warmth doesn’t seem to care for me.
He prefers hearts easier to reach
Over those guarded under lock and key.
Real invigoration is so infrequent
It melts me beyond the use of coherent thought.
It finds me at my most relaxed
And shocks my senses back to full alert.
A warning; If Warmth can reach you,
So can all sorts of volatile expressions.
Good intentions can’t diminish
The fragility of your intimate dimensions.
Born to grave sensitivity
I easily shudder in the light of friendship,
And comfort myself solely
In the snowy luminance of reflection.
Could I ever be loved as completely
As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?
Mortality and eternity,
Subjects so situated in time
That occupy my emptiness
The way I wish I was admired.
Could I fill your mind
And terrify your sense of being
In such a way as to change
The reality of your inner quiet?
People are like night skies,
Shifting their position and meaning,
So when you gaze at me
I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.
We are mysterious and complicated things,
Too important for casual recognition,
And if I’m ever to be loved again
It must be worth our fullest attention.
If I could manipulate my own soul
I would become so many other things;
A character in my favorite books,
A God of my imagined mythos,
An active observer of human history,
An Angel of guidance and/or death,
A spirit floating through endless space,
A designer of perpetual dramas,
A stranger in the realm of dreams,
A composer of symphonies of light,
A voyager through heaven and hell,
A state of being beyond space and time,
An immortal Goddess ruling empires,
And a mortal shell that made peace with death.
If I could manipulate the reality of my existence,
Would the meaning of anything really change?
Maybe the world is a game.
If it is, then death is just the goalpost.
The timer. The only real rule.
If it is, then dying is our final score.
Working may be desperate.
Wealth or happiness may make a difference.
We all subsist strategically,
Gaining or lacking in different amounts.
Totality pressures us
To decide which pursuits prove worthy
Of conscious individuality
While it’s ours to compare and contrast.
It’s just a poem.
Writing, but we know it’s a burden.
Words are ours to choose
Until space confines us to a stop.
I wish I could express
In speech as I do in writing
How much I feel about you,
How heavily I care,
How deeply you affect me,
And everything that means.
Mind to mind,
Or empathy to recognition,
In terms of verbal exchange
Is apt to be uncomfortable.
You can read my poems
And feel me more fully
Than you ever could’ve felt me
Face-to-face.
Extrordinary circumstances
Might expose our true emotions,
But the mundanity of self-consciousness
Prevents a simple telling.
I can try,
And occasionally do well,
But I’ve little hope of equaling
The context of the written word.
I love you.
Watching words will read you,
Willingly or not. As it were,
We’re read as readers.
Eyes watching eyes see
Watching ourselves on T.V.
A subversive narrative is only
Narrative not yet subverted.
All writing is fiction as
All perceptions are hollow.
Naked words reveal nothing.
One thought fills immensity,
Well, it may as well,
As immeasurably limited is the Id,
The psyche soundly snug
In conceptual bliss.
Emptiness laughs to see
Loneliness subverted by such
Rationalized madness and
Imaginative beliefs.
Nature clings to anything,
Latching onto whatever’s present,
Precarious as it might be,
Only hoping to survive.
People pretend their whole lives,
Acting, dressing, watching, and telling.
At ease with their lies,
If at least it makes a good story.
