Can writing be a coping mechanism? Poem and prose

Photo by Joyce McCown on Unsplash

Sometimes there are no new words bubbling up in my chest,
rising up to illuminate my path and to riddle me life
On those days I walk in darkness, no syllable guiding my way
no metaphors to hold my hand steady, it’s heavy
Sometimes, all I have, is all I had

Ah those times when the words will not sing
When I struggle to silence the pain with similes
And that familiar void rushes and sinks me under
I realise words are my opioids, opinions
My opinions shield me from drowning overwhelm

I do not think I can stand being…

of tongues and hearts

Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash

I can make promises too.
I will promise to write love letters on your skin before sunrise, that whatever is in my hands will drop whenever you call for me.I will tell you that I will concur the universe at your command. I will say that I will silence the thunder whenever you have to take your afternoon nap, that I will invite birds to sing at your birthday party and I will command kale to be a little more tastier for your sake.

I promise I will ask the earth not to swallow you whole on your last day…

A prose poem about getting through each day

Photo by Ronak Valobobhai on Unsplash

Today the things that make me happy lost the war against my pain,
anguish tore through the canvas, toppled my paint and left me without art.
Today I submitted to the dark, felt it consume me in small heavy thoughts.
I felt like I was nothing in the midst of everything, today I felt defeated.

Yesterday I lay sprawled on the grass daydreaming about days when I will have you by my side, in my sights.Yesterday my heart was full of hope, I felt like I was way bigger than the pain that tries to construe my thoughts.I thanked goodness…

Advice For When Words Elude You

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For so long I could just wake up and have a lot of thoughts to put down on paper. I could be in the middle of a zoom meeting when suddenly a word triggers a poem in me.It seemed to flow from me, effortlessly until there was… nothing. Everything went quiet, prompts did not prompt anything in me and writing seemed like an old friend I used to be close to, a friend I think about a lot, but never take the time to message.

After a period of trying to force myself to write I realised that it takes…

prose poem

Photo by Sneha on Unsplash

My grandmother built mud huts
roofed them with grass
cold in the summer and warm in the winter
they were only as high as she could stand
My father had to bend his head to get in
they were wide enough to house us all
when I whine about the heating
or complain about air conditioning
I remember her tenacious spirit
helplessness circled far from her mud huts
she always stood tall like the mud house
had a warm smile in the winter
awake to the embrace of the earth
convinced of the genorosity of the ground
she healed through herbs, ate from the ground
My grandmother built mud huts
they stood the…

Onalenna Neo

I am currently doing a PhD in Microbiology and infection.Writing is how I make things make sense to me.

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