The Story Behind the Poem: “Unwelcome”

He’s here again

A most unwelcome guest

He never calls first,

Knocks, or makes a request

To visit.

He just enters unexpected,

My personal space disrespected.

I never know how long he’ll stay

It could be hours, or maybe days.

He sits too close and whispers to me,

Sharp, stabbing words:

“You’ll never have that, it will never be

For you.”

His lies sound true.

I cry in protest, and I begin to cower,

But he shows no empathy,

And his voice grows louder.

“No love, no hope,

no time.” I can’t cope!

Maybe I’ll just sleep until he is gone.

There’s some relief in disappearing,

But for how long?

I never know how long he’ll stay.

It could be hours, or maybe days.

There were mornings I couldn’t get out of bed.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because something heavy had settled over me in the night. Something invisible, but all-consuming. After my divorce, the weight of grief, shame, and loneliness would sometimes take the shape of a thick fog. Or a tightness in my chest. Or a voice whispering that I’d lost everything that mattered, and that I might never get it back.

That’s what this poem is about.

Unwelcome came from one of those days. When depression showed up unannounced, like it always does. When I felt invaded by sadness, like it had crawled into my skin and wouldn't leave. Even though I knew it would eventually pass (because it always did), I never knew how long it would stay. Sometimes hours. Sometimes days.

There’s a strange duality in depression. You recognize it. You know it’s lying. But it feels so true in the moment.

That’s why I write.
Not always to fix it.
Not always to find the lesson.
But to make space for the feeling. To say, “You’re here. I see you.” And to keep going.

If you’ve ever felt this way (like the dark showed up and overstayed its welcome), know you’re not alone. And if writing feels like too much, even a single line is enough. A sentence. A word. A whisper of the truth you want to hold onto.

Try This Prompt:
When an emotion arrives uninvited, what does it look like? Sound like? Where does it sit in your body? Try writing a letter to it. Describe it. Talk back.

I hope Unwelcome speaks to something in you. And I hope you’ll write through it, even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.

With gentleness,

Sharla