A poem about nostalgia and how it might fuel the future.
Experimental verse after reading The American Crisis by Thomas Paine. I took liberty with the language and style. (No pun intended)
Refreshing proper verse poem to take a break from my experimental prose style. A poem for the Edmund Dantes who has no one to exact his revenge on but himself.
I stumbled upon this poem I wrote about six years ago when I was experiencing such overwhelming panic and simultaneous bouts of depression that I contemplated ending my life. I am not ashamed to wear my psychic pain in plain sight. I’m glad I’m here today to share this, while healthy and very much alive.
I stand by my work completely. I do not apologise. I do not censor myself. However, I am not my writing. Some of my work is a autobiographical and some of it is pure fiction. This is fiction. I'll also give a warning when fitting. This prose fiction story is explicit and possibly harmful to trauma and abuse victims. I do not recommend that you read forward if you are sensitive to explicit content. I get a ton of negative feedback and comments about how some of my work is disgusting and offensive. I know it is. I'll respond to those comments with a form letter like this to avoid carpal tunnel if I respond at all. I'm aware that my lack of a pseudonym and identifiable content can be harmful to my reputation. Also, this is wholly MY work. Leah is not responsible for any content that I write.
A poem about dealing with trying not to give into the internal chaos while environmental chaos tries to engulf you