This Corrosion (October 4, 2012)

Feel
Your taint
Coursing through
My body.

Poisoning
My soul
Throughout.

Where
Self-hatred is
The norm
Not the exception.

In
Seeing myself
As a monster
To others.

As
Punches and kicks
Turn my body 
Black and blue.

While
My soul
Whithers away
Upon the caustic
Verbal attacks.

Until
Only a shell
Which you see
Before you
Remains.

Feeling
Full of shame
And despair
About myself.

Therisa © 2012

Author's note: An older darker poem, about my self-hatred and self-loathing, generated from a long history of abuse.

Broken System (Fiction) (November 24, 2011)

Knife edge

Pressed against

The tender underside

Of a wrist.

Hope

A foreign word

Which has

No more meaning

At all.

Complaints

Fell upon

Deaf ears.

Forced to deal

With volatile emotions

Beyond

A person’s control.

Blamed

For everything

That has happened

In the past.

Two

Swift stokes

No more.

Therisa © 2011

Author's note: An older poem, from 2011, with many elements that ring true, for me, it's a fictional poem. Yes, I know, it's a dark poem.

The Call (July 11, 2016)

A soul drowning

In psychic tears

Threatening

To consume all

Body and soul.

Outside

Desperate wail

Of a fire engine's siren

Scream by.

Barely

Able to keep afloat

As "arms" grow weaker

By the second.

Rushing off

To an emergency call

That's life and death

For someone.

Thoughts 

Of surrendering

Grow stronger

To the tears.

Trucks weaves

In and out

Of the holiday traffic.

Gathering darkness

Closes in

One last time

Before

The final silence.

Practiced precision

They stormed up

The apartment stairs

In their mercy quest.

Distance voices

Are heard

Before

They fade away

Slowly.

Loud crash

Announces

The door's opening.

Greeting

The Angel of Death

As She claims

Her latest companion.

Therisa © 2016

Author's note: The wail of fire engine's siren, past the cyber-cafe, on July 1st, was the inspiration for this dark poem. By the time, I had walked home, the first two stanza were already written, in my head. The rest of the poem would take 10 days, to complete. 

It's true, I suffer from chronic depression that claims me, for several months, throughout the year, I'm not actively suicidal, in seeking my death. Although, i do entertain thoughts of not awaking up, from the previous night sleep. Each morning that I do wake up, a sense of sadness, fills me, in having survived another night, and to having to face another day, as a result.