Tag Archives: poetry

Here’s What I Would “Appreciate” -a poem-

Posted on by

0

We all want more money,
but that’s not the point,
it’s the way we always feel
like we’re being exploited.

See, you want to “appreciate”
the teachers who stay –
too bad the way you do it
is making more of us run away.

A week to celebrate
those who educate our future,
a number of which people
dwindle fewer and fewer.

Five days of cute themes
and the snacks that they feature
planned by, you guessed it,
a committee of teachers.

Yes, we appreciate ourselves
because who else will?
I guess they probably think
our wishes, they can’t fulfill.

Like smaller class sizes,
less skipping in the halls,
or for someone to show up
when it’s so bad we call.

Support when a student
tells me, “Shut the fuck up!”
Any kind of response
before a fight starts to erupt.

Stop shilling new products
that suck and don’t last;
we don’t want a script to teach,
this is literally our craft.

No more duty: morning,
after school, or lunch,
on top of the meetings,
it’s all way too much!

Just listen to us,
we have good suggestions!
We’re in the trenches everyday,
giving us the best perceptions.

What I would appreciate
is a modicum of support,
and to feel that EVERYDAY
it’s being reinforced.

Review: Grey Matters by Kristen Costello

Posted on by

0

Struggle is universal. But talking about it? Well, that’s not always encouraged – especially when those struggles involve mental illness.

Grey Matters is a poetry collection that urges us to have conversations about the things we’re told to suppress – to bring our darkness to light. It provides refreshingly honest and relatable depictions of anxiety, depression, and eating disorders while also offering sparks of hope to readers – healing may not be a linear process, but over time, it is possible. Things aren’t always black and white: Sometimes, the very thing you’re fighting (your own mind) can also be what saves you.

A beautiful collections of poems that are honest and raw about mental health. Kristen Costello has quickly become one of my favorite poets to put out a collection based on mental health. She is so real and holds nothing back. Her poems are full of beautiful sound – the alliteration in many of her poems creates almost lyrics as you read.

Just in the first poem, “Swallowing Shadows,” I got goosebumps at the line: “This is how we choke – / by swallowing words / we want to spit”.

The book is separated into four sections: anxiety, depression, eating disorders, healing. It weaves a great pathway through the mind and all of the intrusive thoughts we experience along the way.

I’ve already purchased a copy for myself and have recommended it to everyone I know.

Purchase your copy here and let me know what you think!

ripped away -a poem-

Posted on by

0

ripped from your fingers
when you’d finally gotten the grasp,
snatched from your hands
that’s it – that’s a wrap.
you got one chance,
you should’ve tried harder –
oh, you felt your life was falling apart? Er —-

too bad, no second chances.
the decision’s been made,
your input be damned.
it’s all a game that’s being played
where we forget that our players
can be human too.
they struggle with emotions,
some more than others do.

we give it our all,
but is it ever enough?
or do we keep ripping opportunities
when the going gets rough?

you think you know me
better than I do –
but how do I prove you wrong when
after all I’ve been through,
everything I’ve tried
isn’t good enough for you.

You ripped this from my fingers,
stomped on it with your shoe.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

Rest in Heaven, Grandpa: a eulogy

Posted on by

2

Bob

In memory of my grandfather, Robert “Bob” —-. I’m Danielle, his first grandchild out of six (almost seven). While he was obviously a great husband to my grandma Cathy, a great father to Steve, Pam and Andrew, a great brother to Ralph and Jack, and a great dog father to Gucci, I can say with all certainty that he was always destined to be called “Grandpa” to all of us grandkids, myself, Taylor, Kaitlyn, LeeAnn, Joseph, Jaxon, and Wyatt on the way. 

In general, the one thing we will all remember my grandpa for was how he never ran out of words. That man could TALK. For how much he did talk, he clearly should have become a preacher. He would’ve made a darn good one, too. Talk about “love your job and never work a day in your life.” He loved church and he loved talking. No one was safe from a conversation with him if you were blessed to be in the vicinity. I was going to say ‘room’ but his gift of gab was not restricted to four walls. When Steve, Pam and Andrew were younger, Grandpa would take them fishing every year. He would fish some, and he’d also make new friends on the pier. But how could you not talk to him? So kind, so friendly, so positive. I remember any time we went out to eat he would talk the server’s ear off. Let’s also not forget the casino bus month after month – banished to the back of the bus so he could talk to everyone else and not distract the bus driver with his nonstop questions. Plus he’d almost always be one of the last ones on the bus at the quick stops because he’d be catching up with everyone in the store and wouldn’t get his snacks or food until most were already back on the bus. I can only imagine how many people there are in this world whose days he brightened when they needed it most with his genuine, kind conversations. How many people he met in all his years of truck driving for Albertsons and AAFES who were held hostage to his endless questions, but would almost always walk away feeling some kind of appreciation for being noticed. As much as sometimes his questioning felt like too much, I always remembered that he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t care, and immediately I just felt loved.

Continue reading →

To My Therapist -a poem-

Posted on by

11

So my therapist caught me off guard yesterday. She’s moving up in the world and is transitioning to a new job. Next week is our last session together. I have a lot of feelings about it.

I came to you a broken mess –
a puzzle whose pieces
fell to the floor,
but I couldn’t find the way
to pick them up myself.

I cried out for help,
and you answered the call,
ready to take on everything I threw at you.

While I’m not perfectly put together just yet,
I see where the pieces will go,
and even though I’m sad our time is done,
I’m glad you practice what you preach:
you keep yourself number one.

I know it’s your job,
but I owe a lot to you.
I truly thought this year was
impossible to get through –
but look at me now,
stick kicking,
still fighting,
so close to finally feeling renewed.

Thank you for the last eight months.
I’ve learned so much about myself.
I know now there are better days ahead,
not just for me, but for you as well.

The Worst Thing About Masks -a poem-

Posted on by

4

The worst thing about masks
when you’re astute, aware,
intuitive to emotions
others are experiencing –

your eyes.

Eyes are a window to the soul, they say.
You give yourself away when your
Eyes don’t tell the same story as your words.
Squint, wink, blink, raise eyebrows.

So when I tell you how I’ve been feeling lately,
you hide your worry from your voice,
under your mask,
but I see it in your eyes.
I know you want to ask,
I know you want to cry,
you care, you’re concerned –
how could I ever think I wanted to die?
You stay strong,
but I feel your emotion inside
all because of your soft, sad eyes.

The mask makes them pop,
I can’t help but notice.
I feel worse knowing you’re worried;
you have enough on your plate
and now – oh wait – here’s one more thing.

Your eyes gave away
what you tried to hide.
The worst thing about masks
is your eyes are magnified.
I can see right through them,
you’re terrified –
I’m sorry I’ve become a burden.

Check -a poem-

Posted on by

5

On the outside
she looks like she’s barely trying.

On the inside
she feels like she’s slowly dying.

When would someone see
the signs of a broken girl
who’s running out of time?

Her mind – a hive
of soul-killing ideas
that she’s
unworthy,
unlovable,
unwanted,
undeniably unnecessary to anyone.

Check on your friends
who smile through pain.
Check on your friends
who work hard to maintain
some semblance that everything’s always okay
come rain, come sun, come cloudy day –

for the face they wear is but a mask
glue-filled cracks
waiting for someone to finally ask
“be honest, please, are you okay?”
so they can admit
“it’s all a display;
i’m so damn tired of being awake,
desperately looking to finally escape.”

Check on your friends before it’s too late.

Outlet -a poem-

Posted on by

1

The car-
a space to scream:
freedom to express emotions
weighing me down every damn day.

Therapy-
a paid person to talk to:
a judgement free safe space,
faced with a fresh perspective.

Social media-
A chance to forget:
forced you to find something positive;
we share a glimpse to create a narrative.

Journal-
a place to write:
journals don’t judge, paper doesn’t poke
until you break, desperate for happiness.

Words.
We all need a place
where we can use our words
to freely feel our feelings.
In this society where we’re expected
to fake it til we make it,
what happens when you can’t?

Max capacity,
living unhappily
until we deal with it drastically:

a temporary problem
solved with a permanent solution.