The Progeny of Anxiety

black

The percussion of their heartbeat
Is the rhythm of struggle of many generations.
The agony of their fathers last words
Spoken intensely for so many summers. 
They have seen the hope of dreams
Turned into the nightmares of monstrous scenes unseen;
Their fathers lie there—eyes opened, as pooled blood 
Starts to run; the last remnant left behind
Of the affliction of their lives.
Mothers in unbearable anguish comfort their sons
and gently wipe the tears from their eyes;
They say, It will be alright, but in their hearts 
They fear their utterances lie;
Prayers are abandoned, and faces
No longer look toward the sky.
Stark reality is lifelessness taken away on a gurney,
While eyes stare, with not so subtle apathy;
Black children ask, What does that mean for me?
Tired mothers and fathers try to answer

But voices drag wearily;
Targeted we may be, but we find our strength daily.
We will survive; even with tears in our eyes, we will survive.
In anxiety, we will survive;
In depression, we will survive;
With a generational history of PTSD, we will survive;
With OCD, we will survive;
With afflictions of all kinds, we will survive;
And after the dark winter we will thrive.

Deeply Wounded

The suffering of the long anguished is palpable
Lifelessness is sensed even though they draw breath
The oppression of the soul is heaviness of sorrow untold
Faces of sadness are listless and cold
A once vigorous spirit is slowly constricted
The substance of a man are the contents of his heart
Dreams are dreamed but reality falls apart
Light evening breezes blow through weeping willow trees
Weeping of the sorrowful causes the listener to fall to their knees
Oh the wretchedness of the innocent
Words are hard to find in constant torment
A sudden tightening of the chest feels like the last breath
Many seek solace in the perceived tranquility of death
Tears of the ill are endlessly spilled
A respite from their troubles is their solemn will
But sorrow persists still
Upon hearing the news there is a sudden chill
Tears drop when the soul is wounded and the body is still
The world does not care if they survive
Some cut themselves again and again to feel alive
When the last rose is thrown why does it rain every time
The living march on behind black carriages horse drawn
The portion of the sufferer is agony and forlorn
Black silk kerchiefs absorb the tears of the old
While the young with solemn faces look on
The aged with wrinkled faces and weathered hands lament
Slowly and in whispers they say

We were born of our mother’s womb
But now we are old
We have sought warmth and love
But still we are cold
The path of agony is long
And for so long we have walked
Look upon us and see what the years
Have unmercifully brought
Oh Eternal Father hear our cry
Oh Eternal Father hear our cry
Lest in our misery we unmercifully die
Lest in our woe we cruelly die

They loudly cry
On varnished wooden pews
They loudly cry

Still the sadness comes and the tears run,
But with every battle we learn to overcome;
We are tired but we will endure.
The threshold of our pain is extended
At that moment when we think we can’t take anymore.
Daily we go to war with our shields and swords;
The resolve in our eyes causes the earth to stir and the eagles to cry;
Our tears saturate the soil and our lament pierces the sky.
One day we will be transformed and dwell in light.
We are the stars that shine and beautify the night;
We are the sun in the foreground that gives the moon its light;
We are those subtly beautiful moments;
We are the feelings of euphoria felt;
We are a beautiful song that makes the heart melt;
In our dreams we walk through peaceful fields . . .
We are the fireflies at night that magically light up redwood trees.
We are the essence of the summertime, when sunshine
Highlights the vast array and the many beautiful patterns of butterflies;
We are eagles feeling heavenly winds under our wings 
Soaring in the magical realm of vast skies;
We are walking diamonds formed from the pressure of our pain
And the fire in our eyes.

You

You long oppressed; You anxious and stressed: You night walkers with glowing eyes; You precious children whose eyes have cried; You whom dwell within the corners of dark rooms misunderstood and in agony; You who have endured but hope for more; You who are listless and constantly contemplate death; You mothers who are postpartum depressed, who’s eyes cry and can’t sleep but are tired, looking into your baby’s eyes; You whom dwell on the ledge pondering the finality of a razor’s edge; You who sleep all day but wake up even more tired; You who are chronic insomniacs with eyes wired; You who seek resurrection with protruding veins and euphoric injection; The melancholic of you;  You sufferers who daily drink of that bitter cup; You depressed fathers who can’t look into your children’s eyes without the shedding of tears; You who have prayed, and prayed again, with the sounds of wailing at 4 A.M. You who are reviled even by the ones who claim to love you, as they say hurtful words again and again; The distressed of you; The ones who ruminate in tormented state; You who live in hell; The poor of you who are ill but find a way still; You grandmothers who raise the children of your deceased daughters; You who are not of my flesh but are are still my brothers and sisters; You who have fought for years; You who are reading this with tears; I love you.

Their Solemn Cry

If I am lost, find me;
If I am misguided, tell me;
If I stumble on my path, walk with me;
If I wallow in self doubt, encourage me;
If I am fearful, embolden me;
If I have been led astray, lead me;
If I have been dispossessed, restore me;
If I am in need, render to me;
If I cry uncontrollably, comfort me;
If I am misunderstood, lend an ear to me;
If I am depressed, uplift me;
If I suffer from anxiety, please understand me;
If I struggle with OCD, do not repudiate me;
If I battle PTSD, do not abandon me;
If I say I hate myself, tell me you love me;
If I show my vulnerability, don’t hurt me;

If I am near the edge, just talk to me;
If I am cold, wrap your arms around me;
If I lash out, please know it’s not the real me;
If I say I am sorry, please forgive me;
If you’re thinking about leaving,
Please don’t leave me.

Malabsorption

The malabsorption of fear renders the intestines nauseous and liquefied with sickness. It must not be ingested and given a chance to spread and metastasize; it must be wholly spit out and rejected. If swallowed, it must be immediately purged from the stomach, heaved out with extreme prejudice and burned in blue fire. But when the table is set, will we eat of the portions of fear, lies, illusions, and fast made conclusions, or will we reject the poisonous banquet?

The sweet fruit of clarity and the now reality longs to be eaten, broken down, and used as nourishment for the system.

The caustic ulcers of contagion bleed, heal and bleed again, in the interim.

Written in Fire

Our forewords are inscribed in blood. Chapters of anguish are effortlessly written. Pens of fire highlight the darkness that can’t be seen by the naked eye. Our records of torment and suffering and pain are intricately layered as the pages are turned. Footnotes take hold of the reader and guide with harrowing precision. See where we walked in laborious breaths clutching tight our heavy crosses; hear the incessant wailing of those who hope for more and want to live, but for so long have only existed but yet endure. Witness the pungent scent of hopelessness, despair, and misery. Read with focused intent, not fast; feel the texture of the paper and turn the pages slowly. With every letter and with every word step into rugged boots and hard worn shoes; take the journey. Stretch your arms North, for Polaris is still the star of our or salvation; we are sufferers in blood and in bonds, we send heaven our voice letters and ask for the angels to break our fetters. Some pages may be blank but tears that fall on paper narrate the chapter. The downtrodden, the anguished, the mute, the outcast and long languished are given voice through the pages to record and tell of their devastation and long sadness; diligently search the index and reread certain passages to gain more insight and to interpret the book in its fullness. Run your hands over the leather binding and admire the gold leaf engraving but be mindful to retain poignant paragraphs that are well worth retaining. We cry out between the lines. Our final chapters are yet to be written.

The Constant Shadow

Slowly and methodically it takes from me.
Irrationality and fallacy becomes disconsolate reality.
Peace of mind and tranquility is my constant plea.
It thrives on anxiety and gradually leads to instability;

It takes from me.

In dark desolation I cannot see.
Dragging my cross I am thirsty and weary.
The seasons go by and I am devastated utterly. 
In cold loneliness my existence is dreary; 

It takes from me.

I had a dream of deep valleys and peaceful streams,
But it was consumed by trepidation and anguished screams;
Exhausted and in blight, on worn down bricks I lean.
Looking on they shun me; my pain is their hilarity;
With rotten teeth and foul breath they point and laugh at me.
I curse them under my breath in anger and with vile profanity;

Still it takes from me.

Live Through

Awakened and the nightmare begins
Daily life must be lived
But the anguished have nothing left to give
Unwanted thoughts torment the anxious
Irrationality becomes their reality
Depression consumes in totality
The body is willing but the mind is perpetually spinning
Eyes well up with tears for seemingly no reason
To the world the pain is hard to explain
In dark rain the distressed can be heard fervently praying
If you listen closely to their whispers you can hear them saying:
Dear God, I wish I had another brain 
I can’t live another day with dark clouds over me, and cold rain
What did I do to deserve this pain?
Let me live again and free me from these chains.