Lunch Poem

does my soul still stretch for the past?
stuck in a self-destructive seventeen year olds
mind, never growing up but growing old
all the while because I can’t stop time

do I long for life or death now?
my post-suicidal mind wouldn’t know
which one to tell you, I just stay scared
all the time because I can no longer tell
wrong from right

so I stay in the darkness when I greet
each decision of the day, my thoughts
haven’t been clear for a while and here I am

simply wondering if a cigarette and coffee
count as eating a meal








Angela Bachmann


please troubleshoot all my emotions
for my hardware’s just not right
there’s a bug that’s got me lagging
when sickness is far out of sight

it’s the sadness that needs fixing
but I cannot find the source
there’s no reason for these feelings
yet I remain deep in remorse

how I wish I were a computer
and were easier to scan
for all this analyzing’s got me going mad

if I could I’d turn back time
to a place where things were fine
but oh! it seems that I will stay forever sad





Angela Bachmann

In This Room

Barren brick walls surround
me, speckled with imperfections
as I sit, motionless
for what seems like eternity.
I remind myself internally
that I am getting paid to be here
to justify my extreme lack of interest.
This room is quite unappealing
to me and my self esteem
drops rapidly as the glances
and the stares become
more frequent. My thoughts
remind me that I put this upon myself
willingly. I do not fear
being bare in front of these people.
My terror lies within
my own ability to accept
the body in which my spirit
was placed. The forced stillness
makes me feel both trapped and free.
I examine the freckled wall, and find
a blotch of darkness, one which
strikes me as different, and I let it
encapsulate me.

I am no longer in that room.
I am no longer in that body.
I am that speck of nothingness
on the wall.

The students continue to study me,
and I study
what most of them
will never even notice is there.






Angela Bachmann
© NOTA, Spring 2015

American Spirits

A small brown carton lies among
scattered coffee table contents
I tell myself since they’re organic
it must somehow make them better

But I know I’m simply
smoking cigarettes to die

As my sea of filters flourish
my smoke breaks become more lonely
thoughts of you come creeping back
remember when you used to smoke too?

Now I guess you’re just a quitter
like you gave up on loving me
leaving behind all of your habits
addictions you’ve passed on to me








Angela Bachmann
© Red Cedar, Spring 2016