not for what
our eyes see;
the pain that
our heart knows.
I seek my contentment and peace without apologies because it can’t be purchased and it’s so easy to lose in today’s world.
when you’ve been pierced
by the blunt edge of pain
you will know that
the sharp sweetness of joy
is far better to hold
close to your chest.
Depression is a silent enemy. It steals in to steal from you.
i’ve walked the fringes of darkness
where i felt the hard blunt bleakness of pain
and the stark reality of depression,
where i’ve queried the essence of life
in the time of such deep despair.
i’ve been beaten, molested and left to die,
i’ve stared death in the face many a times,
but only one whisper
kept me hanging on to the thread;
hope, that one day
this too shall pass,
and in the midst of hope
let my life be a lamp.
There’s nothing to romanticize about depression! It’s not a good place to be. Take it from me.
Writing is turning my pain into art.
Writing has been therapy and coping mechanism to deal with things that threatened to drown me. I still surprise myself at how far I’ve come and how much healing, grace and joy that I’ve received.
I wrote the first book ‘Out of The Silent Breath,’ in doubt of my capability to do it. This second poetry book ‘Unbridled,’ is written not just for me, but for love and those who keep me sane.
Unbridled is written for souls hurting, for healing and becoming.
It is served to be well-thumbed and mulled over.
Written in free verse each poignant poetry vibrates with a life of its own.
Bold and uncensored verses that talk about societal issues of rape, domestic violence, sadness, infidelity, racial discrimination, sex, depression, loss, pain, femininity, grief, suicide, womanhood, relationships, love, resilience, courage, anger, mental health, paedophilia, child abuse, break up, conflict, loneliness, ageing, life, lust, optimism, Poverty, Race, Death, Justice, Beauty, Endurance, Faith, Dreams and Empowerment.
The author’s words epitomise the poetic impulse to capture concentrated images from experience and observing life’s moments; impassioned, ecstatic, sad, fiery, sensual; they are naked intimate expressions saying as much as they can say in few words.
We can’t sweep our sad moments under the rug just to pretend that they don’t exist and then heap happy platitudes on top of them.
To heal we must bring them to light. Air them out. Cry. Shout. Do what you need to do. But don’t swallow them.
That’s no way to fix what’s broken. Hiding them away is like putting a plaster on a festering wound. It’s not being courageous to bottle it all up, rather it takes courage to seek resolution.
If you are hurting in any way, seek for a reliable, supportive person to talk to, if you have no one to talk to, free write it all out even if it’s anonymously and send it out there.
I took a stroll to clear my head.
Going down the Marina, under the bridge to a quiet spot.
In a dark corner, a slight movement startled me out of my thoughts.
The sight that drew my eyes made me sick to my insides.
I had shut down the disheartening news of Manchester
wondering when humanity would recover its senses,
only to come across this one.
I am no different from this little baby.
except that I am an older duck
We are all loving beings that value our lives
and it hurt.
It hurt me to watch this young one
who hasn’t even grown to the prime of her quacks
It hurt to watch her entrails hanging out
to hear her distressed cries of pain
I can’t figure out what could have caused it
what could have brought so much pain
even when I tried to draw close
she just kept drawing away in fear.
I cried. I suddenly broke down into huge gulping sobs.
My mind went to the young children,
senselessly killed in Manchester.
Now this baby duck!
I wished I have all the healing skills
that could patch this one and put it back together again
For several moments, I didn’t like myself
I didn’t like the fact that I didn’t know what to do
That I just watched helplessly
just like we are all watching these senseless killings helplessly
I whisper a sigh of prayer for these young souls.
I whisper a well-wish. In this moment,
I just don’t like humans.
Maria placed the bouquet of lilies by the corner of the bridge that she had turned into a little memorial. Opening the small forget-me-not box she added another note to the growing pile of notes tied in little ribbons.
Each year she did the same thing, but each year neither made the pain easier nor took her guilt away. No day passed without her thought racing a thousand times to Lily.
Today is Lily’s birthday. She would have been 24 but she remains forever 16. Today is the 8th year that her daughter had drowned in the cold river.
Leaning on the brown cobbled wall of the old bridge, Maria allowed her salty tears to flow freely like the breeze that fluttered her hair.
She never ceased to wonder why; why she hadn’t noted that her daughter had needed help; why Lily had chosen to jump into the river.
The guilt that she had failed as a mother sat like an unwieldy boulder in her soul.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Thank you, Joy, for the photo and Priceless Joy for hosting this charming platform where we unleash our stories