Why?

I have always been a writer; to myself.

Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.

I was mad, even depressed.

I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.

You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?

I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.

It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.

I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.

I write hoping that one day

maybe

it could reach someone in need.

Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.

I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown

and changed

and moved on

from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.

I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.

I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.

Poison Street

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
I tried to be support
And push us to better ourselves
Moving away from the things
That make us terrible people

I tried to do this with you
But two days and you were gone
Running back up to these poisons
And poisonous people
That you once said you hated

I wanted to start this with you
We were freshening our souls
And beginning something wonderful
Now I’m starting to believe you like the dark
The poison; The hate

You want the reckless and the terrible
The beaten and the stupid
I can feel it in my heart
You don’t want to tear away from it

You say you want this new life together
As you run as far away from it as possible

I want to help you and support you
In reaching these goals that have been set
For years this has been coming
But suddenly now it’s here
And you are nowhere to be seen

I feel betrayed and hurt
Because I trust you
Then I leave for a moment
And suddenly you’re back
To those old ways
Never staying sober
Long enough to care
Or remember our relationship
Or anything you want in this life

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
Of worrying and feeling alone
Living this life we wanted
But now it’s just me here
While you run wild
In the streets you swore
We left behind

Now available, ¶: unspeakable poems by Holden Lyric

¶: unspeakable poems
¶: unspeakable poems

How often in life do we leave the things we most wish to say unspoken? Out of fear or shame, we greet our words with the callous axe of the censor; from the depths of the ego, the id writhes and calls out, desperate to be heard. In her latest manuscript, ¶: unspeakable poems, Sara Khayat uses strike through format to give voice to these unspoken things: things we should’ve said but didn’t, things we longed to say but couldn’t. Ambitious, rewarding, and dazzlingly composed, ¶: unspeakable poems is a work that should not go unread.

¶: unspeakable poems is available here. Dig it!

 

I Don’t Want To Write

 

It’s not ink that spills in pages
But blood, my blood
Garnished from limbs
Splattered into words

 

Do you want to hear it?
How I chase after each hard-on,
Stick my dick into every guy
To fill what? A dark hole of passion
Implanted on my torso
From a fuck who never called back

 

The pastor damned faggots to hell
His words directed at me
Neither the masturbator, nor the drunk
Nor the disbeliever will be held
By the delicate hands of Christ

 

Neither will the delicate hands of
My mother, brother, father
Or of a lover
The only hands I feel are my own
That bruise after every poem
Bleed after each climax

 

Do you love hearing that?
Depression, fear molded into one
Boy framed into a body of man
And is my art of gods or of damnation
Or of methamphetamine factories?
Does my pain make you sigh
Make you cry, get your dick high?

 

I don’t want to write
I make a whore out of myself
Wrapping out the pain from my liver
Blood-stained tissue pulled out of me
Like endless confetti
You can pull too, until I am no more
No organ no bone no fat
Only shredded skin and a vague memory

 

I don’t want to write                  (It’s scary)
You scare me
I scare me
Words scare me
Existence damns me
You damn me
I damn me
For loving writing – the grand pain
Inflector
That vomits lust and fear
That will never end
Until I end.

Unsung

They turned to the river.
Some shackles were due for a shaking.
Rifts developed leaving only loneliness.

They listened, listened for the song
that would deliver them from upheaval.

Hours went by like skyrockets.
A cool breath rose from the hills,
and all was a frieze. There was reminiscing,
introspection, and regret.

Their fragile faith collapsed
initiating a “moment-of-truth.”
They buried their heads in their chests,
refusing even to speak.

The song they had sought died unsung.

-r. miller