Quotes about numbed, page 12
Resurrection
Depression is my burden
I just want recovery
I want a resurrection
That’s what this Easter means to me.
But I don’t want pain or sorrow
Nor being nailed onto a cross
I’m numbed by medication
And the acuity I’ve lost.
Perhaps there’s good in all this bad?
Perhaps there’s sunshine at the end?
Perhaps I’m paying the full price
For not having been my friend?
Suicide keeps being mentioned
When psychiatrists I see
I would not do it! Not at all!
I don’t want a Calvary.
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poem by David Keig
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Dreams of Avalon
Into the wilderness blue she strides turning her head from temptation,
Within the heart of her soul lay the prospect of pure redemption.
Clarity she seeks upon her Journey as I sit and ponder within myself.
Open are the realms to long lost memories of crying beneath
The covers of a blood red blanket asylum. I remember now, burying
My head into the pillow of forgetfulness, I remember now how I felt
Whilst travelling home bearing the tears of regret,
I remember now leaving the beauty of frozen mountain ranges behind
Me as I strode on into the heavy unknown.
Such a strange memory it is to have awoken at this time yet I have grown
Upon and beyond the tears that kept me drowning and I have become
All to aware that those are the memories that ground me alongside
Reminding me of my freedom.
I pray you are never but a memory of a former life
But that I know you to be near throughout my existence upon this plain and beyond
Though I understand we may be worlds apart at times, sometimes with distances growing.
Spoken is my heart too often, numbed is the sensibility of my reason,
Yet it would seem high treason of the soul to silence the spirit of passions saviour.
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poem by David Lacey
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In October
Along the waste, a great way off, the pines,
Like tall slim priests of storm, stand up and bar
The low long strip of dolorous red that lines
The under west, where wet winds moan afar.
The cornfields all are brown, and brown the meadows
With the blown leaves' wind-heaped traceries,
And the brown thistle stems that cast no shadows,
And bear no bloom for bees.
As slowly earthward leaf by red leaf slips,
The sad leaves rustle in chill misery,
A soft strange inner sound of pain-crazed lips,
That move and murmur incoherently;
As if all leaves, that yet have breath, were sighing,
With pale hushed throats, for death is at the door,
So many low soft masses for the dying
Sweet leaves that live no more.
Here I will sit upon this naked stone,
Draw my coat closer with my numbed hands,
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poem by Archibald Lampman
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Frankie
You never came to say goodbye,
And until now I don't know why
You chose to end your life that way;
There are no answers to this day.
News of your death was hard to take,
So numbed with grief I lay awake.
Too far from you to even view
Your casket and to bid 'adieu'.
For you dear brother, my close friend-
Regrets have plagued my heart since then.
Should have been there, I should have called.
When Daddy wrote, your heartaches told.
You felt alone, life hard to bear,
The love you needed was not there.
You must have thought we did not care,
Your hopes were crushed, all was unfair.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Crown Of A Poet
When my pens are all dried up
And my writing on Earth is done
I will then take off my tarnished crown
And I will hand it off to my son.
To continue the writing that I have started
As from this world I have parted.
A poet my son he will become
To reflect his life in rhyme
To bring forth beauty and wonder of himself
Which will take a never ending life.
For the last poem is like a kiss,
For one is born whenever there is a wish.
A poets pencil is his best friend
And a piece of paper is his canvas of white
To paint the words that have been unpainted
And to stir the soul and open the mind.
To bring forth again the smiles and tears,
That has been locked away for so many years.
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poem by Randy McClave
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A Metropolitan City
This is a metropolitan city
where
cluster of trees here and there
poles vertically standing in a row
unlimited vehicles plying bumper to bumper
on a cemented road.
This is a metropolitan city
where
shivering bodies numbed and starved
with sagging breasts and quivering lips
watching
intoxicated half naked
guffawing insensitive rich
swaying and rocking
shamelessly
and five star culture mocking
those despairing eyes
searching for a morsel in the rubbish.
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poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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To Elsie
The pure products of America
go crazy--
mountain folk from Kentucky
or the ribbed north end of
Jersey
with its isolate lakes and
valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves
old names
and promiscuity between
devil-may-care men who have taken
to railroading
out of sheer lust of adventure--
and young slatterns, bathed
in filth
from Monday to Saturday
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poem by William Carlos Williams
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My Red House
My Red House
Be quiet as a mouse
I once played in that red house
Shy was I, like a little mouse
Tippy toed I went looking around
Giggling, without making any sound
Happy was I to run around and play
My very own home to live and stay
My Red House
Be quiet as a mouse
Darkness came swiftly one night
A sense of something was not quite right
The shadows came across the wall
Covering my eyes, ready for my fall
The sounds of whips and chains dragged
against the floor
The sheer terror numbed me from looking
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poem by Miu Miu Ayushi
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Back and Forth...Back and Forth!
Once it is determined,
A person has a 'special' rendition of life?
You know...
Someone 'we' may believe has a party going on...
In their heads.
And it is a private party?
It is sometimes better,
To pretend we hear the melody.
Especially if a desire is shown,
To communicate with us.
From wherever they may be 'inside'.
With all of the activity no one can hear outside.
But suspects 'something inside' occupies!
Although nothing may OR may not be there at all.
And we wish not to take chances and offend?
So we begin to keep our lips closed and nod our heads.
Hoping, eventually, a toleration overcomes us.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Death Of Love
When my arm is cold and numbed
And then laid to its final rest
I wander what thought that it could have
If only to God and man it could confess.
When my eyes close for their very last time
What would be the last sight for them to see,
Would it be a sight, that gave a delight
To be cherished by my soul through me.
When my fingers loose their sense of touch
What touch would be missed most of all
Would it be the roses in the summertime
Or the many leaves, that I touched in the fall.
When my lips quiver their last time to close
What would be the last thought of it to miss
Would it be to say a prayer or maybe speak a thought
Or would it be, to give my one last kiss.
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poem by Randy McClave
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