Lypophrenia: a Poem

“A feeling best described as sorrow that has no clear cause.”

We thought by giving him a name,
it couldn’t break me so badly,
but the agony still extinguishes the illumination
within my irises, within my pupils,
within my soul.
There is a darkness deeper than I care to admit,
but I cannot hide from forever.
(My fire has not ignited in days,
yet I cannot hide in bed
and relinquish myself to the shadows
completely.)

I swore to myself
I would not drown in thoughts such as these,
but sometimes,
the devastations are greater than I can control.

It sometimes feels as though
I am caught in a riptide,
the ocean current pulling me away
from everyone who loves me
until all they are is a speck of sand,
a memory.

(My honesty is raw,
my words are plain.
I usually hide behind an ornate metaphor
crafted carefully and I tread with caution –
not to overstep the boundary lines.)

I have picked up the pen several times,
but the ink well is dry
and my thoughts crystallize
like honey thickening as it cools.
Nothing makes sense when the demons
take the reins
& I try to swallow the bile down.

I try to offer a courageous smile,
but I feel weak and collapsing
is the only option I have sometimes.

Don’t judge me for the anguish I carry.
Each one is a sparrow beating its wings
inside my chest,
desperate to be released but finding a home
buried deep in my rib cage
alongside that dimly burning crystal
that is a barely beating heart.


(I cannot swallow
for all the feathers that have climbed
from my chest to my throat,
from my throat to the wet insides of my mouth.)

So, instead, with this inexplicable sadness,
I lie here,
my heart – my sparrows – knocking against my chest
(an unspoken tragedy bearing down on me).

Isabelle Palerma

Image via freepik.com

Healing: a Poem

I remember a photo I saw of a two-hundred-year-old
cherry blossom tree.
I imagine the events it must have borne witness to:
births, deaths, tsunamis, the rise and fall of empires,
but still its branches spread with pink and red blooms.
I wake up some mornings, an elegy for self
on my cracked lips, gazing upon my scars
and wondering why I’m still here.
But to some, I’m still blooming and they don’t see
the fractures I think define me.
Perhaps I still have some life in me.

If a tree can withstand two-hundred years
of storm and sun,
I, too, can live and love a little longer.

Isabelle Palerma

An Illness: a Poem

A poem written by me, inspired to share by the poet and author, Nicole Lee (@nicoleleepoetry|Scorpio Skin).

This monster reigns as king,
as heavy as an anvil
(as visible as air).

It begs a fight,
fists clenched,
battle-scarred and ready,
when all I’ve wanted is
tranquility.
The bruises it leaves
rot
from the inside out.

The pain sears,
yet the beast hides
(cloaked in shadows).

It might lie dormant
for centuries.
Undisturbed,
it slumbers.
But when it wakes,
blood trickles from its fangs
as it snarls & seethes.
(Searching for a captive.)

It takes & holds me hostage.
It is as toxic as fumes and as haunting as nightmares.

Isabelle Palerma