PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Dazed, confused, wanting to just be me again.

Not functioning, break down, increase in dosage, nightmares.

Me becoming a bitch, wanting to cry, needing to scream

No one, yes, no one, feeling alone, betrayed

Under the influence, bewildered.



Zapped into a secret society of this migraine filled, nightmare riddled, Seroquel circle.

Awaiting my demise. Having someone tell me that I will have this for the rest of my life.

This diagnosis, this disease that has no outside wounds to show, but others still see it.

Secretly wanting it to all end.



The walls closing in, nearly losing my job because of a panic attacks.

Me screaming what else what now. Needing to focus on children, family commitments.

Yet I can’t even start to focus on the writer, the soul, within a soul that needs to write and me.

Needs to sing to fulfill her soul, her yearning to be more.



Desperate tears roll down my unawakened eyes as I realize that it’s over.  What part of my life I held sacred. The part that was the me. The writer, the singer. In a haze now.

Thinking if this is how I function on meds then I hate to see how I function off of them.



Sleep clouding the mind and judgments of the free spirited flower child who just clings to nothing, whose words are the paint against her own life’s canvas.

Splattered life against a strong will to live, but is this dying living.

This dying of the writer’s soul and being the person who relives the attacks in her dreams at night.



Thirty something, having to take meds, things I’ve been fighting for years, scared it would come to this. The point of losing the artist within. The artist, who still does ballet positions, sings, writes, and on the inside rides the gambit of emotions. The neosoulsinger with pinkbarbwire skin on the outside yet does not allow people to ever come in again.



The me screaming like a banshee, wanting to let the words out for me, to heal, to breathe, to be free.