Sounds tend to throb
Slightly muted
Under the noise of
Blood rushing
A vibrating River
Dulling my words
I’m in here
My eyes plead
My hands reach
My face contorts
But my voice
Is imprisoned
By the sound
Of my own pulse
*NOTE
There have been moments in the past that are hard to describe. During the darkest days of my depression when I was more trapped than free. I didn’t look like I was living in a locked room but I was.
I’d see people talking to me but they were hard to hear over the distorted cacophony inside my own head. My heart and soul were at war and my brain was the crooked judge.
If I spoke would I be heard? Could I speak? Would my words make sense?
HASTYWORDS 
I’ve not been to that level of depression, but i have spent many hours with people who were there trying to show them in a way that they could see an open space where they could speak, however softly or hesitantly to ears ready to hear. I’m wishing I had had this page to show them so they could at least say, “That is me.”, and be a little less alone.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I finally feel I’m in a place I can look back at all the ways depression made communication hard. Why don’t we ask for help? This was just one way that still effects me now and then.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re hitting those old nails straight on the heads with both the poems and the art.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
HASTY – Times remembered
LikeLike