Web of Loneliness Poems

Poems of the Lonely

Category Archives: Anxiety

More Poems by Math

When the sun goes down, the light goes out and the darkness creeps within. When Love’s not around, Fear whispers in my ear, “it’s never coming back again.”
Amidst the overwhelming blue seeping through every orifice in sight, floats a small, round clock. First enters the questions, “Where am I? What happened to me? How did I get here? What do I do now?” My mind wanders through countless theories searching for the logical reasoning behind it all. Simultaneously, everything gets blurry and the muscles in my face start to tingle. Then, a quick realization of the situation at hand…I’m drowning. Bursting out of the deep blue, I land on the small, round clock and struggle to regulate the oxygen rushing into my lungs. Now lying on the clock, I stare up at the monotonous fields of gray sky. I’ve escaped one death only to lose myself to another.
– comments pertaining to NEVER AGAIN: I wrote this after leaving a relationship that was not going very well. It’s about a realization that my dependency for the love of another means that by leaving a relationship that was causing negative emotion for the unknown depths of loneliness is a tough situation.
I often wondered how I managed to live a life so immensely rife with strife until the day I realized whose hand it was holding the knife. With every step, I felt it piercing my spine and causing a mental decline as if the wielder made it a point to confine my mind. I tried to defy the pain by claiming my spirit will never die and not once did I ever apply the idea that it was all just a lie to try to deny the truth from my own eye. I was not strong enough to accept that it was I all along who had been in the wrong. There’s a certain picture I’ve been painting over time, hoping to wipe off all the sludge and grime so that I may finally let go of a grudge and reach a moment so sublime. But now it seems I must eternally climb the highest mountains and trudge through slime as Misery’s drudge to pay for my crime.
– comments pertaining to MISERY’S DRUDGE: I wrote this recently, when realizing that I was over-reacting about something because I constantly over-analyze everything. It’s about how I am the only one who consistently and effectively makes my own life harder to emotionally handle.

I Fell and Shadows Appeared

I fell and shadows appeared.

Ghosts that no longer talk to me.

Tried to love, tried to connect,

But the cut is cruel,

And unexpected.

When you lose what’s in your soul you question everything.

Lost my joy but not the memories, which now haunt my dreams.

Lost what I was most sure of.

Lost what I loved.

Now in prison, love only a memory.

On the other side of love I found despair.

Nothing good now, no pleasure other than fleeting.

Feelings always fall back low and heavy.

Will I rise, will I escape?

Want to escape, want to fly, but the shadows are always there,

recalling the sweet innocence of love, wreaking havoc where I stand.

Don’t want to be seen, stay in the dark

Can’t separate from the past, don’t know how to recover.

Nowhere to hide and exposed to shame

Face it head on, soak it up.

Divorced and divorced from emotion.

No more sharing now.

Don’t know the final lines, don’t have the answers.



The anxiety builds and I write it out, I write it out…  Words swim in my head and crush against the rocks of verbal limits.  Thoughts flow faster that words, they drown before I grasp them.  What is the origin of these thoughts, these words that won’t let me rest.  I want to reach out for another consciousness because I can’t stand being imprisoned in mine.  It’s like a room one has lived in their whole life, not much changes, more useless, scattered junk accumulated over the years.  I do some dusting from time to time but mostly I’m sick of the same four walls dressed with circulating questions, doubts, and ambivalent truths.  Someone else’s room always looks more enticing, because you only get to peek through the key hole, you can’t see their clutter, you can’t see they are just as suffocated as you are.

We live most of our lives on the periphery of consciousness, immersed in sensory awareness, pressing needs, trivial demands.  The mundane is depressing when not infused with the fullness of the moment.  Than again why would you want to be mindful while washing the dishes or taking a shit?  What divine meaning can one find in throwing out the trash?  Some are afraid of naked existence and seek comfort in uncomplicated deterministic truths; some carry the burden of meaning overload.

Could the world be so sensitive that when I gently touch a leaf today, someone will smile tomorrow?  What if everything is always “in intimate conversation with everything else”?  How would one live their life with the acuteness of that knowledge.

The physical plane feels so sluggish, so slow.  Continuous bliss is impossible in this plane of learning through suffering and loss.

I feel as if I can’t get attached to anything since it is never mine to keep, the eternal flux of life will sweep it away leaving me only with myself.  The true connection is only in essence, essence that we unfortunately cannot perceive.  What a cruel punishment to feel emotions in this suspiciously interconnected universe where nothing is static and everything is a reminder of how painfully separate we are by the function of consciousness.

How sad to float amidst, but alone.

I touch the body of another wondering it is only an earthly blanket for the soul, aware that I can’t imprison a soul, much like I can never lose a soul connection.  Yet still I somehow want to hold onto this other body and preserve the moment that I feel slipping through my fingers at the very allusive now.  To capture now.   To fully embrace something that passes faster that a blink of an eye, seems there is not enough time to descend into this vague thing called the moment, a shattered peace of the hologram of time and awareness.

Why learn everything that I can conceive knowing, why can’t I just flow through this experience like thoughts flow through my head, so swift and gentle… I can’t feel them.

This earthly form with all its physiological implications of feeling and thought, of addiction to certain feelings and thoughts makes the conception of spirit a nuisance.  If one could settle for the limitations of the body and mind without conceiving of some perfect energy form one is at the core, life would be much easier.  Perhaps less mystical.

The unwritten paragraph haunts me with its promise.  Does it know I’m not ready to fulfil it?

Please feel me

Please grasp me

Please see me through the maze of you own perception

How do I know you touch me

Not distorted

Make me valid

Let me see in your eyes

The truth of who I am

M. M.