Poetry: Selections from Wioleta Deptula

It Comes in Waves

My hollow chest fills up with pain. An invisible fist grabs and squeezes and twists and squashes my sternum. It holds it tight; the grip is strong. It’s not loosening up. The numbing pain travels further. Up. Another invisible fist closes its palms on my throat, slowly but carefully not to choke me. I can breathe, I can speak but I have nothing to say. I’m trapped. I’m helpless. I’m weak. These fists are big and strong. They are not letting go. The grip is getting stronger, and I don’t know how to free myself. So, I just sit here with tears rolling down my cheeks waiting for this moment to be over.

Until next time.

Autonomous

Sitting alone in a dark room. Millions of thoughts come and go through the mind. Meaningless, most of them. Scenarios that will never become a reality. Conversations that will never take place. Looks that will never be exchanged. Touches that will never be felt. An imaginary world filled with nothingness. Perfect waste of time yet so enslaving. It’s the ability to create the perfect world, perfect outcomes for the problematic situations. It’s an escape from the mundane reality or a demanding reality. It’s a personal virtual reality except there is no need for goggles. It all happens in the mind, in the head. The body is resting, not asleep, just resting. There is no need or use for the body, the mind is all that is necessary. Eyes are closed yet watching the show the mind is playing. It’s a grand spectacle with a private viewing. Very intimate. Very personal. Tailored to the spectator. The show is thrilling, intriguing, captivating and provocative. There are no rules, none. And the show, it never ends. It keeps on going even if the eyes are no longer watching. The mind does it all, all by itself, all on its own.

It’s autonomous.

Untitled

I’ve not lived all the lives

that I could have, not killed

all the lives that I should have

murdered my dreams

suffocated my hopes

and now I have to live

with all these ghosts

Untitled

I write in solitude

it’s how I live too

I love in solitude

I haven’t met you

yet, tell me will I die

like this too

Untitled

Just thin skin thin ribs

sticking out, blue

thick veins and thinner

purple ones my body

defenseless and weak

that’s what I was given

to survive

                    in this world

Untitled

Underwater I close my eyes

I fall to sleep as I go down

the last air leaves my chest

as I land softly I rest

Underwater I open my eyes

my body lies on the bed of sand

I have pain in my sunken lungs

Underwater I choose

to stay I will not move

till I find my way

Wioleta Deptula is an illustrator and a poet based in London. She originally comes from Poland therefore she writes in both English and Polish. Her journey with poetry started in her early 30s when she decided to take private poetry classes.