#recovery

1191 posts
  • e11eventhwolf 1w

    I moved to the ocean while hoping to reignite.
    It had been a long fight through shadows and thieves.
    I arrived at the ocean with burdens so heavy I could hardly carry them to her.
    But now her caress slowly wears them down and smooths them out.
    It doesn't happen in an instant.
    It's slow and over time. I keep going back to the ocean and each time I'm a little more healed. The salt air soothes my soul and fills my mind with wishes that don't seem so big when I'm there.
    If whatever created the ocean created me, maybe there's more possible in life than everyone's been telling me.

    ©e11eventhwolf

  • e11eventhwolf 1w

    You told me you loved me while you held a blade against my throat.
    You smiled and told me everything would be okay while you tried to stifle every effort I made to be healthy and happy.
    I know your type well. A spineless creature who preys on the powerful who have yet to embrace their light.
    ©e11eventhwolf

  • faceless90 3w

    New Hellions

    Newly revived I exhume the demise that has truly defined me to mute it with lies I've construed in the mind that acutely was blind because muses of mine were rebuked by the cries of mutants inside of my beautifully bright unusual eyes that soon will be mine.

    Never again will these hellions exist in my temporal crypt before belting out hymns the angelicals sing in the heavens while sins they repent for begin to beget what they give.
    ©faceless90

  • in_fragments 4w

    Create through the pain, and keep your friends close. Don't be afraid to speak out, your words will have value to someone. ��
    #pod #poem #depression #recovery #love #friendship #support #voice @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Unmummified Muzzle

    No voice or response,
    no echoes or expression,
    no color or creation- for weeks on end,
    a mouth stitched shut, caked in dry blood;
    nose overstuffed with decades of dust;
    cobwebs settled on my thighs and eyelids-
    I lay in a grave, heavy and mummified,
    hearing the cold world spin on without me,
    listening to the bustling future
    and to my own miserable thoughts-
    with no way to speak them,
    no way to move, to find relief
    and exercise my weakened lungs.

    A vegetative, lonely soul, stuck in time,
    frozen inside of myself;
    the art is stunted, and the belfry is broken,
    so I do not grow anymore. I fear it all.
    I forget what it was I wanted to achieve,
    that I am even human, that I am real-
    an obstructed psyche, no one seems
    to notice, not a heart cares to hear,
    not a pulse knows the pain-
    a tiny human passed over, seen merely as
    a mummy with no mind,
    yet for the first time in centuries,
    someone has arrived somehow, to listen...

    I cannot react as a warm hand
    caresses my hair. He whispers gently
    and waits for me, he talks to me,
    expounds with potency and passion
    and my bones begin to stir.
    He encourages me to follow his voice,
    and my brain starts to slowly
    find its way back to my body-
    my eyes flicker open first. I see
    him smile at me, with no judgement
    or impatience. Finally,
    I can open my cobweb muzzle and cough,
    releasing pockets of dirt and earth
    from between my greasy teeth.

    Like diving headfirst
    into the brisk morning ocean-
    providing a piercing shock to the body
    as it comes back to life,
    so inviting, so exciting-
    to talk with someone who heeds the words,
    letting the touch of another
    tend to my wounds, washing me
    with his communication, letting his language
    expand my ancient perceptions-
    organzing my thoughts that go nowhere,
    making room for fecundity
    and space for inspiration
    to flow into me once again- the sensations
    leave my hollow skull stunned.

    I start to speak with a dry, raspy voice.
    Even if they don't understand,
    even if they ostracize me
    for the things I want to say, I speak.
    I speak to keep myself alive,
    I speak to stay stimulated,
    I speak to keep myself from becoming
    like those I know
    who have nothing to say.
    My reflections may prove important
    to just one person- but the only way to grow
    is to share what you observe.

    Never stop speaking, never stop creating,
    no matter how far the melancholy sprawls,
    how deeply neglectful of your identity
    the world continues to be.
    You are stronger than
    the hold it has on you,
    your screams will break through;
    while on the other side of your remarks
    someone listens and waits for you.
    ©in_fragments

  • ahirkarajath 6w

    torn apart, i behold my heart:
    beating, loving, and going still.

    #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay
    If you're going through a difficult time, have faith in love. #loveisintheair, all we have to do is see. Offer love, and receive love, wholeheartedly, freely, and consciously.
    .
    .
    .
    #poetry #poem #recovery #love #lovequotes #writersofmirakee #hope #miraquill

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    love saves those whom death denied mercy

  • in_fragments 9w

    I don't have a lot of friends, not enough who know me anyways... this one is kind of all over the place. The moral is just... to talk again. It's like we've all forgotten how to create true connections. We just... become what we think others want us to be. And in the end, we're left with no identity of our own.
    #pod #poem #mirror #friendship #trauma #recovery #inspiration @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Mirrors, Blood and Silver

    Two long and statuesque silver mirrors
    take the places of two human beings-
    because we don't see people anymore.
    We only see the parts of each other
    our psyches choose to show, the parts of us
    we want others to see, the parts of us
    that reflect everybody else
    like we're looking glass,
    keeping bottomless secrets
    behind our own thickened frames.
    They only see that which is surface level,
    that which is easiest to digest;
    for it gets harder and harder
    to fall in love the farther we venture
    into the limitless abysses
    of our inner selves.

    We will all be mirrors, in the end.
    We are all so tired, so colossally lonely,
    shapeshifting through life showing others
    who they are, searching until
    we're senile, feeble and gray, in hopes
    that somebody will finally see us too.
    We are all forlorn from soul separation,
    and that means we are all
    never really alone. We will never
    achieve true kinship with each other
    with our exorbitant reflectors
    still stood up like pointed cannons.

    We must speak. Bond deeply.
    Break down our own walls.
    Remember that longing; let it move
    past your lips in speech
    and down your face in hot tears,
    let it rush through your entire body
    in vibrations of vulnerability.
    Let a conversation move your heart,
    let the connection of two lost souls
    cause these mirrors to throb
    like terrified hearts.
    Let it build up, feel the excitement,
    the body and soul buzz with recognition.
    Let yourself scream
    until you are seen... until that throbbing,
    powerless mirror you hide inside
    implodes in a burst of burning glitter.

    Go through the anguish
    of picking the broken pieces back up.
    When you stand up dauntless, each naked
    in front of the other, covered in blood,
    and pierced by 10,000 shards of silver;
    no longer caught up
    in such unscrupulous competition to be
    anybody but your authentic selves-
    then you will see
    everything kept suppressed,
    left unknowable in each other,
    and you make the reasoned decision
    to stay or run in panic
    from all the things you've seen.
    The panic that comes
    from knowing someone else-
    and the panic that comes
    from knowing your own self.

    When you have demolished
    everything around you, uprooted
    everything you thought you knew,
    and laid with the pain
    to see it for what it is- the beginning
    of healing a worn out mind-
    when you wipe away everything they
    convinced you that you needed,
    you come one large leap closer
    towards the future you've always wanted,
    and the life you have always deserved.

    It all starts
    with a single heart-to-heart
    and the will to shatter our silver shells.
    ©in_fragments

  • in_fragments 9w

    Been depressed, fighting thoughts of suicide lately, thinking about all the trees I used to climb, how they're changing mostly for the worst. These cycles come and go for me- on Unbearable Depression Mode in this poem. But at least I have to stay alive to write a poem about dying. Even when they're horrific and sad, the words keep me here every single day. I can never stop for too long.

    If any you are experiencing these same scary things, be sure not to keep it bottled in. Talk to someone you trust and love, express it in a journal or a piece of art, find a therapist who can help guide you out of the darkness. You deserve to discover the light that's waiting for you. ��
    #pod #narrative #poem #thoughts #nature #trees #life #death #suicide #suicideawareness #depression #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Death Is A Tree In The Suburbs

    P̟a̟r̟t̟ O̟n̟e̟: R̟e̟f̟l̟e̟c̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    In my backyard,
    in this modern townhouse suburb,
    where the alleyways are grassy
    and venerable earth
    lies suffocated by cement;
    where evergreen pines and maple trees
    loom loftily over our homes;
    the scent of homemade barbeque
    wafts its way around,
    and children scream out in play,
    racing each other
    through their cul-de-sacs,
    circling back by the end of the day.

    Right now, the morning sun
    is arriving tall across our doors,
    bringing both disturbance
    and opportunity in its golden eye.
    My sight is becoming more obscured
    by the old tree outside my window-
    the one my parents planted
    when they moved in, 30 years before
    a future like mine was on their minds.
    It used to be so small,
    like every infant sapling, now it towers
    over every roof and moving horizon,
    clipping every sun ray
    behind the veins of large leaves...

    A grand, developed elm tree
    on the other side of our street;
    standing sure rooted
    next to the house on the end-
    the tree we would voraciously climb
    when we were loud, intrepid children,
    paying no mind
    to the old lady living inside; the one
    who screamed at us for climbing
    every time we tried,
    until the year she died
    and we had no idea. All we had known
    was that our favorite tree was back-
    because the old lady was dead,
    her home abandoned,
    and we were far too young
    to notice the peculiar change.

    Time doesn't wait for you
    to notice it, like the sky which races
    in circles at a speed too fast to feel,
    like the trees that keep growing
    without checking in for permission.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    one too large to keep curated,
    so it is stunted or cut down; and Life
    is a pernicious vine,
    pestering the cracks in the sidewalk
    as it breaks its way through them,
    growing high and away from concrete
    or along the sides of wooden sheds;
    always going up, and up, and up...
    because nature may
    be dying at our hands- even still,
    it always wins out in the end.

    I wonder how high
    these tree branches will take me...
    Maybe up into the clouds,
    if I never, ever stop.
    Scaling their thick limbs, sitting midair
    is the closest we can come
    to flying without steel wings.
    What stands between Life and Death
    is air, and a body to get you up there-
    skin and bone, between tree and vine,
    surrounded by sky; the realm
    where life and death conjoin...





    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟w̟o̟: I̟d̟e̟a̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    I don't climb anymore.
    I've been too exhausted for decades.
    Now I grumble and bend and ache
    like the trees here do;
    one side of themselves trimmed
    completely away,
    half-dead with hardly a chance,
    and the stern winds pushing
    their branches close to snapping.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    every one I've fallen from,
    every one that taught me
    how to feel alive-
    we continue to kill them,
    and I continue to die with them.
    It was all so different
    when we were younger.
    Now I helplessly watch it all oscillate,
    I get older, feel more ruinous,
    with less reason to be alive.
    The trees awaken towards the sun,
    they beckon me to climb my favorite one,
    they whisper this, "If you would die
    to see the beauty of this world
    one more time, then what have you
    to lose?"

    What have I to lose?





    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟h̟r̟e̟e̟: T̟h̟e̟ S̟p̟l̟i̟t̟-S̟e̟c̟o̟n̟d̟ S̟n̟a̟p̟
    Death is a tree in the suburbs,
    and I, a tired child, am listening-
    clamoring and ascending it,
    falling one last time for it.
    I climb, and I climb,
    going up, and up, and up,
    clutching the timbered boughs so tightly
    they etch imprints into my palms.
    I watch the final stage of the sunrise
    through decaying orange leaves
    and empty bird's nests,
    a hundred feet up or more.
    I watch the sky bleed its colors,
    turning into familiar, beautiful cerulean.
    I hear the birds begin their chirping,
    closer and sharper than from land.
    I wonder if they are speaking to me.
    I wonder if they are confused,
    intrigued, unconcerned.
    I observe the morning dew drops dancing
    on my wild wooden throne,
    forming like gems on my face
    and on the green grass below.
    One more breath, and the vertigo begins.
    I inhale again and feel myself
    smile as I sway, close my eyes
    and relax...
    then one more long exhale
    as the tree branch holding me
    abruptly snaps.

    It allows me to fall so rapidly,
    before my brain can rush to meet it-
    a ragdoll body flying downwards
    out of the sunlight,
    landing with a rigid crash
    deep into the immense shade of fate-
    with no one to watch it go but the birds,
    the trees, hidden insects, the sky,
    and the eye of the rising sun.
    It is a most cathartic drop for all.
    ©in_fragments

  • bandile 10w

    Burdens

    Why do I feel so intensely?
    These strong emotions are affecting me immensely.
    Still drawn by deep connections.
    Being torn apart by internal insurrections.
    I see why I would use substances to dull my feelings.
    To prevent me from feeling these real heavy things.
    These burdens are heavy.
    This is the cost of sobriety.
    I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.
    Self-discovery...Lord uncover me...thank you for this journey of recovery.

    ©bandile

  • darared 11w

    Materials

    Not an engineer
    Not an architect
    Not a builder
    But bricks of understanding
    Girders of will
    Mortar of blood and tears
    Have made the many bridges
    I have walked upon
    Peered across
    Leaned over
    Passed under
    To get to my many selves
    And you
    And her
    ©darared

  • theoffendedteddy 11w

    You Will Survive

    How much life have you seen? Pain, death, how much life have u seen flash right by your eyes? How much loss have you experienced? Of having and THEN being taken away? How much emotion have you had to sacrifice, ‘coz you couldn't weep over them? How many times have you said to yourself 'it is what it is' and shoved things so far in a deep unbothered corner that they have now decayed and decomposed, with nothing left for you to mop over? How many times have you slapped yourself 'okay' ‘coz you couldn't let your mother see your eyes red and swollen? How many times have you hushed yourself to sleep saying, what happens is for the best?

    There are people that have never tasted life and have been caged in a cage with painted walls SO pretty they think that their life is and that's all they learn to love. And when they're freed, they refuse to fly away; they peck at the ones with a lending hand. They refuse to be shown the colours of life and return to the cage and weep.

    But imagine the ones that had wings to fly, they have tasted clouds wrapped in sunlight gold. The mountain, oceans, rivers and grass - they have had it all. Birds like that losing wings to fly, can you fathom the pain they felt? And if they survive, how can u not? For our hearts is the same device.



    Have you cursed the people around you for being weak, for breaking down with every whiff, where you could hardly shed a tear - when your world was falling apart? Have you loathed the ones moping over men when your parents kill each other? Have you scoffed at those that hurt themselves and cry that they are hurt?

    I overcame death, pain, hatred, fraud. I overcame being used, a broken heart. I overcame failure, rejection, backstabbings and rape. I overcame all that, ‘coz there are people who've had it worse and they've survived. They have served, and grown and overcome all that they have. They inspire me to do the same, for there is no other way. There is so much I wanna do in life, so many places to see. So many colours I wanna dye my hair and so many pets to feed. So many clothes I wanna fit in and so many poems to read. There’s so much love I wanna give to the world and a little bit receive. I deserve the world and shall settle for no less. No loss will take me down.

    If I can survive burying my mother, I know ill survive it all. I will collect the pieces of my broken heart, plant them and water them, nourish them anew. I will strengthen my heart to survive for just myself. I need to love me more, caress me more, I need my life to belong to me. No boy or man, love or friend, dead or living soul can change my mind. They’ve done what they did, bygones have gone by. All that’s left is me, and I will walk my own path, make my own amends, be happy with myself and give me love. I will survive, so will you.


    ©theoffendedteddy

  • kellyverajean 13w

    It snapped me in two.
    Crumpled into the linoleum.
    Panic. Nausea. Fear.
    That you were never real.


    ©kellyverajean

  • cicimoon 15w

    Squandering

    Rarely do I squander outside of my writes
    Do I need to work a 12 step for writing

    Hi, my name is Queen, and I'm a writer!

    I've squandered my energy, time, money, and ridiculous things, that I could never possibly need.
    ©cicimoon

  • in_fragments 15w

    Yay for lifelong medical battles... cancer... autoimmune diseases... bloodwork and hospital appointments since childhood... at least I'm turning it all into something creative that feels worth something now. I'm not just a guinea pig anymore.
    #pod #poem #blood #work #medical #trauma #thoughts #mentalhealth #mentalillness #selfcare #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Blood Work

    A tourniquet, tied tightly
    around my arm once again
    as I squeeze my fist
    to find the perfect vein-
    tap it, watch it rise
    to the surface of my skin like a wire;
    clean the spot with alcohol,
    look away and prepare
    for the thousandth little pinch
    of the familiar and stoic needle...

    Blood pulls away from me
    into the doctor's long glass tubes-
    their syringe fills up with vibrant,
    vermillion liquid, sloshing up fast.
    I feel it pushing out of me,
    red soda sucked through a straw
    between two thirsty lips;
    after so many decades,
    the flow is recognizably rhythmic
    and draws the sanguine fluid out
    on beat; a little heart force,
    a pulsating sensation
    in the soft side of my right elbow-
    a little bit of draining, all up my arm;
    a piece of life being tugged away
    from me, later be used to create me.

    Switch out another cylinder,
    until I watch them fill up three-
    cover the spot with a cotton pad,
    with the needle still inside,
    then taken quickly out
    just as easily as it came in.
    There is an art to drawing blood,
    and every three months
    I am required to collaborate
    to create my own clean
    hemoglobin masterpieces-
    for under microscopes
    and through test tubes,
    you can measure every chemical
    and mutation inside, monitor
    the uncontrolled cells that make up
    your own personal madness.

    From now on, the needle is my pen,
    turning chronic illness into creativity,
    another long and deep well
    to draw from.

    My dried life force lies
    in between pages and poems,
    betwixt the tiles of childhood bathrooms,
    stained on old long sleeves.
    Emotions linger like dust
    in the silent spaces
    between language and thought.
    I am not gone. I have been in
    and out of test tubes for decades,
    in biohazard bins all across the coast,
    seen only by a privileged few
    who were smart enough to handle me.

    My artwork is the real blood work,
    the pen can suck me through it
    like a tiny medical needle
    and I spill my truths all over the canvas.
    You need blood to create art,
    so for the rest of my life,
    as I give myself continuously to tubes,
    and machines and medications
    and disorders- a lifelong battle,
    I've accepted my fate;
    the art is the only channel
    I have ever had for all that blood.
    A pen is a needle, gliding across
    white paper like skin,
    pushing words in with sharp tips
    that protrude from the page like veins.

    For my sanity, it's all the same to me.
    ©in_fragments

  • manicmaniac27 15w

    When I saw your face again

    I ruined everything about myself
    Your face reminded me of how worthless I was
    How I was only good for one thing

    When I saw your face again
    I broke in two
    I was a reckless tornado tearing through anything in my way
    I only realized the damage I caused
    Months later when the winds finally calmed

    By then I didn't know who I was
    Or where any of the pieces fit back together
    I was alone with nothing but wreckage all around

    Because I saw your face again


    ©manicmaniac27

  • cassiopeia_sky 19w

    Recovery

    In recovery nothing will ever be attempted when all possible objections are not performed with genuine intentions...
    ©cassiopeia_sky

  • achal234 20w

    Torimodosu

    Recovery was necessary
    After that heart break
    Healing was going on
    And after sometime one mrng i got up
    And i felt that i didn't miss him anymore
    I didn't stalk him anymore
    I found myself moved on
    ©achal234

  • nightpen 20w

    Crystal Tears

    I swear he can't care, my mirror gets older
    He gets colder, liquid sin in hand he stares
    He stares to my core, knows how to be me
    Say I'm ok, says he loves me, takes a sip
    Where is God? This man is destroying me


    I was the dude with a bible in a church pew..

    It never changed my mirror..

    I listened and ended addictions but..


    He was there, approaching from the doubt
    Out of light of day, down from the starlight

    I abused science to justify forgetting God
    I used God's silence to drown in a lie
    I used to wonder in bed when I cried..
    I wondered why..

    I think I know now but..

    That mirror is cracked Crystal, Tears of lies
    Maybe its glass is why my heart died..
    I threw me onto my own self and got scared 
    Ran away to catholic masses..

    I never realized..
    I am that glass..

    Shattered in Crystal Tears..
    Liquid courage to drown my responsibility.
    He doesn't stare. He cares. He's crying out.

    Am I really here?
    Yeah, I am..
    Am I scared..? Yeah, I'm terrified..


    What will he do to me next?


    Can I escape that he's been praying?
    That I was the one who was self-slaying?


    I found solid ground.


    Forget this doubt..
    I'm staying right here.

    The man in the mirror fused with me.
    We are one. We always were.

    I just had to wake the hell up first.
    Thank God I did before riding in a hearse..

    Crystal Tears become glass unbroken.
    Slowly closing the door on a past of affliction.
    Doubt can be a dangerous addiction.


    That man is my hope.


    He always was.
    ©nightpen

  • mehakgorakhpuri 20w

    वक्त दो ज़रा वक्त को,
    घाव पे मरहम लगाने को।
    फिर देखना वहां ज़ख्मों के,
    बस निशान ही रहेंगे।
    ©mehakgorakhpuri

  • risonangel 22w

    True Words

    You will never know the worlds evil unless you face it head on stronger than the people who paved it deep in your path.
    ©risonangel

  • faceless90 23w

    Psychosis

    Losing the sense I have gained from psychosis, I've proven that blessings have traces of doses of evil and wicked yet gracious emotions that lead to the passing of manias motions...