I Am Sad Balloon

This might sound unnecessarily dramatic,  but does anybody feel like one could die of loneliness? I’m like someone who has plenty to eat but can’t digest: I can go to church or hang out with a friend or text someone, but it only “lasts” for a couple of hours before I feel as if it never happened. That’s not to say that I am not grateful that it did happen; I just no longer feel it, like a balloon that was inflated but quickly deflated. 

I did an image search for “sad balloon”

Granted, I do get over-sensitive, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask to want people to text me back. When I get like this, 10 minutes can feel like torture, and I’ve been waiting more than 4 hours. I have tried to make time pass more quickly by sleeping, as not much actually sounds like fun (except typing a diatribe on my blog). I’ve texted multiple friends and no one has said anything. WHY DO PEOPLE SUCK SO MUCH??? 

 

I am sad balloon
Put me out of misery
Many puncture wounds 

Masterpiece! 😂

Obviously  I need some changes. And even more professional help. 😬 I’m probably going to end up dying, and everybody’s going to say, “We nEvER eVEn SaW tHe sIgNS,” because people are really fuuuuuudging stupid! 

people are selfish
but i love them anyway
fucking idiots

Whoops I dropped an F bomb. 💣 🤪 

The Labyrinth

Because apparently I am always a mess, even when I think it’s all fine, I wrote this. It was originally going to be a poem, but it seemed to fit better as a 6-sentence story, so here it is. Today has been a fun day, but I just got a lot of anxiety, and the eating disorder voice was telling me lies (that thing is a *insert your favorite cuss word he).


This anxiety is even more massive than my mind is telling me my thighs are. I know that that much is a lie, but it’s also saying that no one but you will ever find me beautiful or love me enough, that if I leave you, I’ll never find anyone better. In this mental labyrinth, so difficult to escape, I don’t know what is truth and what are lies.

This anxiety, core fear, is keeping me from moving. I want to distract, hide, sleep, don’t want to think about this. The mazelike grooves in my brain are used to this pathway and where it leads: “Don’t really want to live — not like this.”

spiral green plants
Photo by Steven Hylands on Pexels.com

Writing a Bridge

My attempt at a super-short 6-sentence story for this week’s prompt, strike, combined with the Sunday Bridge Challenge from My Vivid Blog (this is my first time trying it). The first and last sentences are given to us by chellebee53 at MVB.


Madge folded the letter and put it in the drawer. It was a love letter from her longtime beau, Robert. She was head-over-heels for him, and he felt the same — at least, that was what she had thought.

When he told her that he had met someone else, it felt worse than a strike in the face, than a sharp knife carving into her heart.

With tears in her eyes and ghosts of memories keeping her company, she wondered if she would ever be able to let him go, to move forward, to start again. Only time would tell.

love free standing letters on top of cabinet
Photo by Tomer Dahari on Pexels.com

Quirky Man

It’s Flashback Friday! It also happens to be the feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the Catholic Church. 🙂 Usually this date, June 24th, celebrates the birth of St. John the Baptist, so that’s what this poem, written exactly 3 years ago, is about. It’s in a form called a Rhyming Wave and is kind of funny. 🙂


Saint John the Baptist was a quirky man,
A quirky, quirky, quirky man,
He acted strongly in God’s plan,
He acted zealously.

He said, “Greater comes after me,
Comes after, after, after me,”
He dined on locusts with honey,
He dined in wilderness.

John the Baptist was a quirky man,
He dined in wilderness.

It Seems

For MLMM’s Photo Challenge #413, this image from Pobble 365:

My first thought upon seeing this was about the surrealist painter René Magritte, specifically his painting The Son of Man, which you will probably recognize:

The Son of Man by Rene Magritte

via

I found some fascinating information about Magritte himself, specifically about his early life. Learning about what events inspired an artist’s or writer’s work is endlessly intriguing to me!


 

It seems Magritte was a vampire:
Looking into the mirror seeing no face
No hair empty black suit black hat.

              White Walls.

Is this the real world?
It seems an image given by a false mirror
An image given yet at least free,
Free of that damned apple
Which filled the entire space between

                   These 
              White Walls.

I’ve been trying to write something all week for this captivating picture (preferably something that is not terrible). This poem started to take on some surrealist qualities as I wrote and looked at more of his paintings. At least, that’s my excuse. Apologies!

A Villanelle to Overcome

Today’s prompt for day 28 was to write a concrete poem, and that is what I did not do. Instead, I have a villanelle for MLMM’s Saturday Mix: Lucky Dip. I’ve been working on this for days and, because I had to wait a while for my ride home from work, finally finished it this evening!

It’s a sad poem, but I wasn’t very sad while finishing it. In fact, I was eating free frozen custard, and it’s pretty hard to be too sad when you’re eating basically ice cream but better! The only exception is when you are eating a whole pint of ice cream by yourself in one sitting because you are nursing a broken heart … but that is not what I was doing. 🙂


Inertia’s difficult to overcome,
It’s making every door seem like it’s locked,
It makes me think I’ll fall again in Glum.

Though Now is pleasant, future’s worrisome:
This beating heart inside feels like a rock,
Inertia’s difficult to overcome.

Is there an out? Faith tells me there are some,
Although it seems Hope’s shop is out of stock,
Making me think I’ll fall again in Glum.

I try small tasks. It feels like chewing gum —
Not really doing much — this brain is blocked,
Inertia’s difficult to overcome.

Even when good arrives, will better come?
I must do more and cannot only talk —
How often must I fall again in Glum?

Will better days arise? God’s keeping mum.
Any large change affects me like a shock!
It makes me think I’ll fall again in Glum —
Inertia’s difficult to overcome.

burning fuming candle placed near boulders
Photo by Oyster Haus on Pexels.com

This picture seems to fit the mood of the poem.

Drove along, he did.

Another poem to add to the “I wish I’d written this” file:
Ben’s fantastic and disturbingly relatable response to the Emily Dickinson prompt from 2 days ago!

defying atrophy

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –

Emily Dickinson

Stopped for Em, but not for me.

I tried…
Flagged him down
Stood in the road
Flung myself under the hooves

Drove along, he did.

No “kindly” stop for me.

But then,
Death does not operate
a taxi service,
does he?

He doesn’t come
when you call

usually.

He comes when you are ready,

And I guess I wasn’t.

Am not.

Yet.



This is the “early bird” prompy for #NaPoWriMo22 (National Poetry Writing Month 2022):

Dickinson is known for her elliptical style, unusual word choices, and mordant sense of humor. Over the past year, I’ve experimented with writing poems based on, or responding to, various lines from her poems. Today, I’d like to challenge you to do the same!

Yes, it’s already April 2. I’m behind. Just like death, sometimes.

cue “mordant sense…

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