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Anxiety is watching a blur of cars, their tires gliding swiftly through damp roads,
Drifting -- away. The sound of the crossing delays them-- a moment to breathe; A random pause in their flow of movement. But moments later, they begin their smooth descent To the known, Their destination already decided. Silent tears, the only things that can escape you; A salty tasty of freedom against your lips, The only way of knowing your tears are real, And not just a river being washed from within you, Turning you into the puddle cars manoeuvre around, Or splash against, coating pedestrians with despair, Their own feel for what anxiety did to you. But anxiety is Being left behind; Watching life move without you. Anxiety is frozen, Knowing what to do, but disconnected from your ability to move, Wondering how your legs once caught up to them, A blunder in your memories. Anxiety, your mind a jittery hand You can’t control, Your dreams spilled onto a page But the pen, the key to your soul, Is Slowly Losing Ink Anxiety is the choked silence Frozen in your throat Lodged between fear and freedom. Nicole
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The wistful whispers of the ocean as it glistens in the moonlight
Subdued by the tranquil air and the silence that gently travels, Urge the pebble to edge further into the predictability Of the soft waves, finding safety in its delicate fluctuating motion Unlike the tumultuous waves that possess the angelic Body of water when the sun rises. The blue light is electric, reflecting and revitalizing The gentle splashes provide a promise that they will Guide your thoughts, rather than aggravate them. Slowing them down, focusing on what truly matters. Unlike under the scorching cerulean sky, Where floating in the middle of nowhere Is blinding And being suffocated under the waves Which choke your silence. Here, silence is free, Silence isn’t synonymous with fear. Liberated by the soft waves of freedom, The dynamic blue water is glowing, Illuminating the truth in who you are, The truth that only you know is there. You’re safe here, You’re protected by the breeze that Carries your trepidation away Through the waves of discovery.
Sometimes I wish I could rewind the clocks and go - go back in time, be interested in the things I'm not, play with the toys that collect dust, climb the tree house before it’s all rot, ride my bike before its covered in rust, play games with my brother, just give it another, go - go back in time, and say yes to those scary things, not be as shy, listen to the bird sing, cause the limit is the sky. Oh, the places, I will go - but now I just sit, and cry as they all go by. By Josh
The cushions on the couch provide a comfortable place to rest -
the dog curls up beneath my feet to doze, the rug is her place of vacation its soft strands intertwined with her fur, like warm sand underfoot. The picture frames on the wall catch my eye as I examine the memories they hold, As the books on the shelf call out to me, they long to be read, the blanket wraps around me - hugging me tight as I read, travelling to a distant world from my living room, whilst the vinyl spins round and round, dancing as it sings, the candle joins in the dance - gently, flickering, as it bathes the room in a soft, warm light, the warmth protects me from the cold outside, the storm that rages on can’t reach me, here. By Josh Freedom is the power, the right to act, speak or think as you want. It’s the privilege of not being imprisoned or enslaved simply because you’ve exercised the right to the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. Freedom is a gentle blissful feeling that manifests into a fiery, ambitious passion upon your first taste of freedom. Freedom is a place where you are free to dance until your feet can carry you no further, for you to scream until every last living thing has heard the strength of your voice. It’s a place for you to express yourself to the fullest extent of your existence on this Earth. Freedom is a weapon used to break the chains that bind you to weight of oppression, to decay the mantle of hostility and to destroy the ranks of bigoted men and women Freedom is the art of creating, being and expressing yourself until every last morsel of your body feels free. RoisinOrdinary I am only ordinary, And indeed it might show. I’m nothing more than commonplace Although, looking for a glow- You might find a few, Somewhere, sometime- Among the shimmering sparks that stem From that soul of mine. I lose more than I win But I have more than most. I’m insecure, I’m confident I lie, I dream, I boast. If disappointment are stars Loneliness is my moon- Though I’m asleep, most of the time Til the sun shines brightly through. If I were to try to say, With some words, in some way The things I want to say- I wouldn’t find the way. ‘Cause I’m clumsy like that. I get mad. I get sad. I’m nothing like the others, Yet sometimes- that is bad. Roaming about the world I know that I am free- To go this way, that way, my way- And call it ordinary. Except I am not; I am blessed, With a mind, with a family, with friends and teachers and dreams and woes- Unlike anyone else’s. Ordinary? Ordinary. JesseNotes: This poem was written in July 2020 and inspired by the HBO miniseries “Chernobyl”. Like the show it has five distinct sections, though the references are not, by any means, confined to Soviet Russia or nuclear power plants. I’d like to think of it as a reflection of all socialistic societies in the modern world, the mistakes they’ve made, and the status quo they have paved. The first and last section are intentionally untitled. Only they contain references to the show. The word “bullet” is used many times throughout the show, mainly for three reasons. One, as a metaphor for the uranium radiation that Dr. Legasov used to explain the disaster at a meeting. Two, as used by soldiers when they kill contaminated pets, and how one must put bullets in them “one after another” until they are dead, so as to not let them suffer. Lastly, as a straightforward symbol of murder. “Fly us directly over the reactor and believe me, by tomorrow morning, you will be begging for that bullet.” “I am not brave enough to take the bullet by myself.” “They will give you the bullet, and take everything.” All three of these meanings convey death. My greatest wish is for all to read this, not to be scared, but to see and recognize. It is painful getting struck by the bullet but even more so being used as one. At the end of the day, life involves living. We must guard each other’s legacy, stories, and experiences. We must reform on what is alive, and understand that which has perished. We must construct protection from ashes, for if we do not the world we live in today will burn down, again, someday. See the bullet. Understand the bullet. Despise not merely the bullet, but also the gun, the shooter, and the deliverer of the weapons. It is a system of death. I. “You’re one of us, Legasov. Now, I can do anything I want with you, But what I want the most is for you to know That I know. You’re not brave. You’re not heroic. You’re just a dying man Who forgot himself.” “I know who I am, and I know what I’ve done. In a just world I would be shot for my lies But not for this. Not for the truth.” “Scientists And your idiot obsessions with reasons. When that bullet hits your skull, What will it matter why?” II. The Forest We are trees With our numerous branches of thought, With the natural desire to grow crooked At every possible opportunity. Orders & rules Chop those sly branches off. The soft growth Sprouting from our main trunk That might Distract, corrupt, or become difficult to manage- Are often strangled in their cribs by the efficient system That is our society. So how does a tree know If it is growing straight? When it turns to look around, The only types in the forest- They are the same? How can it tell? Whether it is well? It can’t, and that’s why It is often suffocated with unknown bewilderment. We do not let mere smog disturb our living, however. At least we still have some sunshine, right? How else could we have grown? How else could we have grown this tall? We comfort each other And let the fog swirl around us- The forest that is our home. III. The Factory A chain of command Makes a good factory line. You stay at your post By your machine, with your crew And do what you are designated to do. It will be tolerable, of course Not work too grueling to send you bawling Nor pay too meager for you to scatter. You get to work And work, and work on In a pleasant, cushiony mirage. Chop, chop, chop up the trees! Deftly but efficiently Slice them into manageable pieces. Cut, cut, cut the edges! Punish the crooked trees For being the way they are. Remove the dangerous corners And trim for aesthetics- It’s an art, really. Polish, polish, polish the sides! Learn them the way of life. Soak them in alcohol, lies and wealth Then remind them it will be taken away if they don’t behave well. Bend under your touch, mold against your hand That is the way before the paper of sand Is introduced, and even they Must eventually succumb to the inevitable fate. But for most wood It doesn’t have to be that complicated. Bullets are needed For all shapes and sizes- If anything, just to fill up the factory, Keep the workers busy, And the forest alive. Nutrients are valuable, but So is suffering! Let them be who they are And get discarded later down the line. They contribute, too To the great factory. A chain of command Makes a good factory. The straightforward line of orders Masses up the great power Of the workers And GETS THINGS DONE. A chain of command Makes a good factory, but Not a laboratory, Not a theater, Not a classroom. Not a restaurant, a hospital, a judicial court. Not a people, and not a nation. Not paradise, not hell either. And so people work in factories. IV. The Orders We take orders. We grow up taking orders. We grow old, giving orders While taking them all the same. Why is it, why? That it’s such a painful relief Watching others refuse them For us? “What are we delivering today?” Asked the truck. “Polished, round toys.” The driver replied. “But they are just the same as the bullets yesterday!” The truck puzzled aloud. “Well, they are toys.” The driver replied. The truck was silent For he knew not to speak more. The driver needed him for the job, But not more. It stayed, obedient, Helped load itself up Before out of thin air An urgent question struck. “But how- oh how- are bullets made from wood?” “Well, you see, it simply is that way.” The driver forgets to keep up the pretense Of bullets being toys- And says, matter-of-factly. “You cannot make bullets from wood?” The truck resisted. The cloud of confusion Swirled in front of its headlights. The driver shifted gears And stepped on the accelerator- Together they set off To deliver the orders. “Why, of course you can. Very deadly bullets too!” “So you’re meaning to tell me,” The truck suddenly realizes, “That we’ve been using wood To make our bullets This whole time?” The driver swears once And farts loudly on his seat. Know your place, the fart said, Before you make you take my shit. The truck has dealt with this before- It has long learned to hold its breath. In doing so, it became silent. The truck shed a silent tear for the trees For he had known them once For he had befriended them once For he had been them, once- Before he was made into a truck. Anything can be made from wood, That was the way things were. Wood is steel. Wood is plastic and rubber, Wood is stealaluminumcopperglasswood. The truck learned this From the driver. And that was the way things were- For everyone, even the trees, Accepted that. … Escape while you are still a tree. For if you stay, And wait for better days- You’ll be chopped up, Packed & delivered. And even if you don’t, Your seeds… You see, there is no safety In such a useful forest. V. I have become contaminated With the air of justice. It has contaminated every cell in my body And held me hostage- Body and soul- To something called “Universal truths”. Love your enemy, This air says. Right your wrongs, The air says. Understand the world, The air says. And so My hair falls Quietly On the words that I read. I am dying, I know. As soon as I became exposed to it, I was on the path to my grave. But aren’t we all, though? Are we not all? On the flowered road to death? On the highway to hell? Those, who are less contaminated than I am Who are not contaminated, for they are far away Are they not doomed to die someday, as well? I bow my head, Humbled by the power of this air. I have grown to admire its power And relish it’s abilities. But love, no. I can never love justice. For it pains you so. Oh, it pains you so To have it in your body Shredding the things you used to know Apart. Why is it so slow to act? Where is it, when I have gotten a taste and now seek a release? Oh, if there is a God, tell me, Why do you let such a thing exist? Men are nothing, Nothing, In the face of nature. Societies have no way, No way, In the exposure of justice. And so it must be hushed up! Kept safe, Sealed with a bullet No, many bullets- Aimed just right. But as long as it exists- As long as it is there! There can be no going back now. The probability Of an explosion Someday. In my great, socialist home country Is imminent. The bullet command obedience. And threatens death. But, I I choose to celebrate life. jESSEWalking home, From school. I feel like I always do, I feel like a fool. Wipe the tears, Which are threatening to break through. I wish that I was, I wish that I was someone new. I see the sun, I see it rising in the sky. Now when I trace my scars, I feel like I can fly. I will always be true to me, I know one day my bravery will set me free. I will fight forever, I won't cry anymore, Today's the day I will even the score. I'm a survivor. I walk the streets, Of my hometown. And I reflect, On just how often I've felt down. No one understands, Quite how I feel. Makes me feel like my emotions, Are not a big deal. You see the scars on my wrist, You see my hand in a fist. My heart is locked like a vault, Little do you know it's all your fault. I will always be true to me, I know one day my bravery will set me free. I will fight forever, I won't cry anymore, Today's the day I will even the score. I'm a survivor. I'm a survivor. I'm a survivor. ~ Kenzie. KenzieThey say study hard and you’ll have a good life, You’ll be successful and have a good wife. They say stay at school and don’t have fun, You’ll get a nice car and know how to run. They say don’t cry and let it out Just keep it in and go workout. But what they don’t know is that I want to break free, I want to laugh and sit under an oak tree With my friends by my side as I break down And let the mascara make me a clown. I want to worry about the little things As I consider them important and they give me wings. I want to fly as high as I can, but mom and dad, don’t worry I won’t go too far and I’ll be back in a hurry.
She tries to carry herself strong in front of others but deep down she’s broken, She smiles the brightest but there isn’t a single light in her, not even the slightest, She’s changed from her outspoken self to now being soft-spoken, And at this point, her life just passes in a blur. She used to be the happiest person, even on the inside, She used to feel the love from those she truly did love, But, now she feels that she has no one by her side, She doesn’t know if she can even rise above. She believed that finally, she had a sense of belonging, That for the ones she loved, she would do anything, But now, she finds herself eternally falling, From her flower field, she’s been picked from her stem. She thought that at the end of the day, they’ll be with her forever, She thought that she found those who truly cared for her, She thought no matter what, they would always be with her, But she thought wrong. She finally knew what people mean when they say you shouldn’t let your walls down, She finally understood why she was so reserved in the first place, It’s because there is no certainty on how long anyone will stay around, So now, once again, she needs to put on that rusty mask she never thought she'd use again: her second face.
What must it be like, to be you, mother? Do you ever think of yourself? Do you ever consider being selfish, greedy, self-centered, to be the one who takes and not the one who gives, the first one at the dinner table and not the last, every Ramadan you listen to the kitchen table food critics, demands, a blur of mental notes you made but never once a complaint, but mother, I want to hear you complain. Every Ramadhan you always kept your fast right at the end “there are 5 minutes left” I yell, upset that you couldn’t keep an eye on the clock or upset that you always put yourself last or upset that I was the only one who noticed. Oh, what must it be like to be the fruit picker, to be the giver, but never intending on biting into the flesh? What about home? Do you miss home? You miss home. You speak of your family, your sister, you tell us you see them in your dreams, you catch up with them but over the years you have become an outsider, a guest, we tell you. You protest. The only time you show ‘want’ and ‘need’ is when you want to go overseas, to your motherland, to kiss your fathers’ hands, to discuss your mother’s death, a million times again, out of fear that you might forget. Her. We remember that morning, 6 o clock, a call from 1,000 miles away broke your heart, it cut it open never to be stitched back up again. “Mother has passed away,” your brother said, and you were never quite the same after. You became fragile, so helpless, so in pain, every part of your body grieving, your fingertips mourning, having lost the chance to touch her face, kiss her hands, goodbye. You picked up your bags to pursue your husband’s dreams and left half your joy at the border if you’d have known how much you were giving up, would you have stayed?
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Teenagers With Experience is an online organisation created to provide teenagers worldwide with an online platform to share their own experiences to be able to help, inform and educate others on a variety of different topics. We aim to provide a safe space to all young people. You can contact us via email, social media or our contact form.
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