Categories
Depression Poetry

Leaving The Ruins Of Yesterday by Rahma Jimoh

The sun journeyed into the moon
Another time to leave the ruins of yesterday
And the shackles swiveled in for aeons
It’s time to dance with the singing breeze
As it leads on to a night orchard
To climbing life’s rocks & hills
With the rainbow as a ray of hope.
 
Hope, now a ringtone in my world
As I am a diamond in the making
And I am gold in the furnace
Why I brew now to burn brightly later.
 
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Rahma O. Jimoh is a poet and essayist. An ardent lover of nature and tourism. She has been published in Sub Saharan, SpringNg, The Quills, The Mamba, Poetry Pea, Hedgerow and elsewhere. She hopes her works leave footprints on the sand of time. She blogs @ dynamicrahma.wordpress.com
Categories
Depression Poetry

Redemption of Bodies by Iliya Kambai Dennis

Your tongue is in conflict with your teeth
The same way you struggle
To maintain your stamina on the ground
But your grandma says you are a child of water
A way of saying your mother is a mermaid
Or your father had sex with your mother in her dream
To conceive you & you were born
Stepping out with your legs instead
Even when the doctor says you suffer from neurological fear
That only a therapy can get your lying body walking
And we tried to crave poetry from your mother’s song
To help align your blotch figure with imagery
We write you poems and sing lullabies
And tell your mother to carry you in wishes
Therapies are not as strong as prayers
They wrap you in a spectrum
And allow you to fold into a beautiful song
Of redeemed bodies that have reconciled with nature
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Iliya Kambai Dennis hails from Kaduna state, Nigeria and is a graduate from Usmanu Danfodio University, Sokoto. He is passionate about writing. He often find himself writing poems when obsessed. He sees writing as an art that heals. His works have appeared in Youth shades magazine, Afreecan read, praxis magazine, African writers, BPPC Anthologies, FWGE and elsewhere.
Categories
Depression Poetry

Post Natal by Ellen Uttley

I throw away a mouldy bottle

in a kitchen, filled with crap

piled high with guilt and clutter

bean tins and baby hats.

 

I walk through my house, in tiny steps

over, and through, debris.

I kick aside a washing pile

that blows through the house like leaves.

 

From upstairs, I hear crying

and my numbed heart does not tug.

But dread echoes round my aching chest

sucked raw, and dripping blood.

 

A little face looks up at me,

a new one every time.

Bald and spotted and screaming

and I’m not sure that she’s mine.

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Ellen Uttley is a working class writer and mother-of-two, from a mining town in northern England. She enjoys working across a number of different genres and themes, with poetry and prose covering everything from mental health and motherhood to the myths of Ancient Greece. Her prose has appeared in the Hive anthology Surfing the Twilight and her poetry is due to feature in this Augusts issue of Streetcake magazine.

Categories
Depression Poetry

All the Way Towards Another Tomorrow by Yuan Changming

Since              yester twilight
Along             the borderline of tonight
With               fits of thirst & hunger
Among           storms of pain
Between        interludes of frenzies or insomnia
Near               despair & desperation

Amidst             the nightmare
At                      the depth of darkness
Through          one tiny antlike moment
After                 another…
Until                 awakening
To                     the first ray of dawn

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Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include  Pushcart nominations, Jodi Stutz Award in Poetry (2020) & publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), & BestPoemsOnline, among 1,709 others worldwide.

Categories
Depression Poetry

The Definition of Okay by Sarah Frazin

Okay.

See: not okay.

Not okay.

See: stressed.

Stressed.

See: depressed.

Depressed.

See: unstable.

Unstable.

See: disaster.

Disaster.

See: doomed.

Doomed.

See: broken.

Broken.

See: lost.

Lost.

See: okay.

Sarah Frazin

Sarah Frazin is a queer writer and graphic designer located in Southern California. A lover of video games and writing alike, she often spends her time obsessing over fictional characters. She can be found lurking on Twitter under the handle @femmeNPC.

Categories
Depression Poetry

In (Your Own Head Nobody Is Your) Mate by Daniel Clark

The bashful day won’t dawn. It shirks and skirts
along fleshy walls – you thought all cages must
be metal? that dragons all breathe fire? – tickling
drowned blue orbs. I am inmate and guard, gaoler
and gaoled; sanity means order, direction, structure,
putting every detail in its place like how they sort
elements into that big table then use quadrilateral
voids to paper over the cracks, those pesky vacuums
of knowledge that sink a pursuit nobler than xenon,
argon or krypton… if they can use zips to attach pieces
of cloth, why must I hold myself together?

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Daniel Clark is a working-class writer from the UK. His words have appeared in Blue Marble ReviewDreams WalkingFifty-Word Stories and Cuento Mag.

Categories
Depression Poetry

Major Recurrent Depression by Samantha Moya

2:30am, a glass of water straight from the tap,

somewhere between violets and lilies –

(I stopped buying flowers because they were too expensive.)

 

Kicking off the blanket because it’s too hot, pulling it back up because it’s too cold.

 

I loved your dimples and thought they were kind, and so did everyone else.

 

I inherit this disposition; my childhood home is falling apart,

and it’s almost funny because it seems like a metaphor but it’s quite literal.

The roof is caving in, the floor is sinking,

and I think the cobwebs have ruined my VHS tapes.

 

I smashed the clock I remember from my youth.

I wasn’t trying to stop time but I was trying to stop something else from moving.

 

Everyone says don’t take it personally but how is it ever not personal

Sometimes I read Virginia Woolf’s suicide letter to her husband –

it’s unbearably sad but it’s also a love letter.

 

Scars are figurative and very real –

I have the stretch marks from my old body

and the place where I stuck a razor when I was 26.

 

It’s embarrassing how old habits don’t die,

you’d think that eventually it should all wash away,

like runoff in the gutter.

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Samantha Moya is currently a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Colorado Boulder. She studies Political Science and does her own writing and arts on the side. She is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and currently resides in Boulder, CO with her partner and two dogs.
Categories
Depression Poetry

In Patient by H.E. Casson

These metal beds 

On either side

Up, up they rise

And here I lie

 

Tucked in with arms 

Crossed in an X

 

The floor is cold

It cools my back

I count, I track

The seconds tick

 

I hope I’ll soon 

Be done with this

 

The hospital

My second home

I’m home alone

I hum along

(I know this song)

I fall asleep

I’m hidden here

 

Between these beds

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H. E. Casson is a writer, a Torontonian, and an all-around-somewhat-okay human. Their words have recently been published by Malarkey Books, Lunate, Taco Bell Quarterly, Terse, and Writers Resist. Their SSRI of choice is Cipralex, though their anxiety prefers Ativan.

Categories
Depression Poetry

A Room Full of Shadows by Praise Osawaru

some mornings you wake to a stamp of silence

in the air, swaying in tune with your heartbeat.

 

you are paralyzed in your dreams

& you are a breathless wanderer, in reality,

 

trying to convince yourself that you’re not just

occupying space in the world.

 

you stare into the mirror in your room

& your reflection tells you that you have a condition—

 

that you suffer from the invisible illness.

maybe that’s why your feet leave no prints

 

or maybe the wind erases them as you go.

you compose an affirmation for yourself

 

or maybe it’s a mantra, you do not know.

it goes: i am alive! i am not dead! see me, world!

 

you say the words over and over again

till your mouth registers the verses.

 

yet you feel like a ghost hung up in cobwebs

in a room full of shadows.

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Praise Osawaru is a Nigerian writer, (performance) poet, & wannabe entrepreneur studying at the University of Benin, Nigeria. His works have appeared/forthcoming in African Writer, Kreative Diadem, Ibua Journal, Ngiga Review, Perhappened Magazine, Praxis Magazine & elsewhere. He was longlisted for African Writers Award 2019 and shortlisted in the 2019 Kreative Diadem Creative Writing Contest. He’s openly a film fanatic & overall art enthusiast/lover. Say hello on Instagram/Twitter: @wordsmithpraise

Categories
Depression Prose

Wanting Away by Jerry Chiemeke

You are lying on the floor, five inches away from the mattress. It’s no cooler down on this rug, but you are not exactly in search of lower temperatures. Curled on the 6 × 4 and breathing slowly is probably all the warmth you need, possibly the one thing that matters now…but maybe you are not out for comfort in these moonless hours.

You want space to mull over, to stare your soul’s emptiness in the eye, to brood over your disillusionment without the distraction of loving arms.

Surfing YouTube puts both your battery and your mobile data under pressure, and googling your favourite musician has long become an unexciting pastime. You don’t entertain the thought of praying either; for one, you can’t help but feel that it’s an easy pathway to sleep, and in any case, you took a shot at that option hours ago, but you felt no better. You can’t blame Him though, He’s a pretty busy Being, deserving of some real slack, even when your tears soak the communion railings, even when your knees sink into the tiles.

It gets to you, looking spoilt for choice one moment and left with nothing the next. It gets to you, being overlooked again and again, no significant additions on the last Google search of your name. It gets to you, populating your blood stream with blue and yellow pills just to boost stubbornly deficient serotonin levels.

You wonder if the tight shutting of eyes and quick gulping of water is even of any use: the disco hall segment of your life ended with your early 20s and the sound of bluesy guitars make up the soundtrack for your hours now.

You’re exhausted; of trying so hard to be funny in person to correct notions of you from people who couldn’t be bothered, of having to explain why communication is a real chore for you, of making her see that when you say nothing it’s not because you’re getting drawn to someone else, of dealing with “why so melancholic?” inquiries and “I just wanted to check on you” platitudes.

You are done with trying to make yourself understood or likeable, and you have come to terms with the fact that nobody’s going to love you right, that a hundred soothing text messages will never be enough, that God himself would have to come down if the pile of broken pieces that is yourself stands any chance of ever being put together.

You’ve run out of tickets to the pity party, and you just want to be away, this version of “away” being more of a feeling than a place, that fever pitch desire to swim across planets and watch your body float from the sidelines. Colourful photos from birthdays of acquaintances on your Instagram page are unable to cancel out the greyscale that is your default hue, and you know for sure that the ceasefire from the wars in your head has run its course.

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Jerry Chiemeke is a columnist, culture critic and lawyer. His works have appeared in The Inlandia Journal, The Johannesburg Review of Books, The Guardian, Honey & Lime, Bone and Ink Press and Agbowo, among others. A lover of long walks and alternative rock music, Jerry lives in Lagos, Nigeria where he is working on a novel. He is the winner of the 2017 Ken Saro Wiwa Prize for Reviews, and he was shortlisted for the 2019 Diana Woods Memorial Award for Creative Nonfiction.