I wonder what would
tempt to cut away the life in me.
To feel it rush out, spilling
onto the ground. To allow harm
There is a sick churning in my
stomach at the thought,
a gnawing, nervous notion
that began as a silent prayer.
Would it be better to find some way,
painless, less messy?
But I know the truth of painless,
it would only be painless to me.
No speculation of a car running,
left in enclosed space,
fumes that lull you into
And though my loved ones,
my family and friends,
close acquaintances, and others
may feel the eerie effects of what
was done, it is not
their tears that spare me.
To end my story seems such
a deep shame, I would swear
I’d never recover in the afterlife.
I’d swear it on my soul.
Time to understand this notion,
this temporary madness instilled within my own,
still a whisper, barely evident in the eve of this
shadow who is listening and taking into account.
There is nothing in this space, but the small footfalls,
unholy thoughts no longer allowed to enter,
come to collect some buried mystery
Enter and leave at your leisure,
but disrupt and take only what you may account for;
many varied verse will take and entrance
to let the dreams enjoy brief respite
for the realist tomorrow they face,
and fall not for the many faces that it shows,
it is only one who masquerades as two or three,
but is only one.
See how I made them turn on you?
Alleged allies, friends,
those who claimed to love you
forsake you in the end.
They cannot help it, you see
they are meant to survive,
but you my dear–just you
one flight away from a dive.
One second from waking too early,
or kept up by light bearing distractions,
a sudden urge for pedantic perfection,
or too much use of contractions.
And there they go to leave you here,
my venom, still in you, festers.
You’d like to think you’re well again,
but for that small voice that pesters.
And what chance have you really?
You cannot have friends! Another
I will see to it all you have claimed to love
will certainly forsake you in the end.
You are not a good person,
you lie, you cheat!
The fact you survive yourself
is a feat,
and believe me, I mean
I told you the truth,
if you want to survive me
use cunning and ruth.
But go with your forgiveness
for those who leave you,
those too ashamed to
stand at your side,
those whispering your name,
still hot on their tongues,
and absolve them of sins
they lay upon you.
I feel the cold metal barrel pressed against my head,
bullet, laying in wait,
thumping pulse in my temples,
though I hold no gun.
It is my great grandfather’s, my great grandmother’s,
my best friend’s mom’s and stepmom’s,
my friend’s, my neighbor, and so many
and while it is not in my hands, I still feel the weight of it, the sensation
of something leaned against me,
a dull ache in the top of my throat,
and the deepest pull, the desire to
squeeze the trigger.
It’s the clicking of the safety,
the unfurling of countless nights
stayed up too long, trying to figure what it all means, and when we
find no answer…
No great comfort in why we should be here, not one solid delusion of self-importance, and the echoing of centuries of self-loathing, and uncertaintly, stacking against us,
enough to break Atlas’s arms.
When we stop asking questions…
That’s where the true trouble begins.
He says depression takes too much commitment, and he doesn’t feel it
Blue is simply sad for a moment, knowing that at every sunrise,
hidden just under that pinkish horizon,
dancing in the vanishing point, is hope.
Dawn of a new day in every morning,
in hot coffee and running shoes, a humble acceptance that feelings are just temporary.
He’s found joy in running hard again
with his spirited Australian Shepherd,
he feels thirty again,
and I can’t say I blame him.
To quit anything you love for any length of time,
even for the sake of saving knees, is depressing, so coming back must feel
like finding an old friend.
Finding that inner-joy in doing something that he used to do all the time, and he remembers good ol’ days, the laughter, the stories, and the pranks,
but instead of hiding in Mauldin,
he honors that memory with running
carrying his friends in his mind,
and dog treats in his pockets.
Not knowing the impact he has on me, he goes about his day,
never guessing that he has inspired me so much that I have begun to run again.
Now it is my turn to be non-commital,
and shed the weight of my depression.
It is time to reach within myself,
and cast away my shackles, running free.
And I thought things were going so well…
I have scattered ashes of my past,
pouring them on my barely breathing soul.
Chalky grey inside my nuclear core,
covering my smile, dimming the
stars lighting the way into
my true self, which is not a person unlike me when I was happy,
and the thoughts that would have
led me to you.
In solitude I find my anger, buried deep, burning at two hundred thousand Kelvin. It’s the smallest recess in my most forgotten memory,
which sometimes fractures into dreams,
snatches of memories in smells, and feelings, but never a full picture.
I haunt the earth above the gravesite of my first daughter. Wind stirring just enough to unsettle those fleeting questions, louder than breathing.
I am always reflecting my life, the times I didn’t walk away and the times I should have.
Those first inclinations to bat away that growing
apathy, swelling in my fingertips, now solidifying in this strange buzzing of racing thoughts and feelings I would rather not feel.
Staring distantly at the written letter held between my fingertips, I feel the deepest nothing, allowing quiet rage to billow up the back of my knees, twisting spaces between my fingers and my wrists, and that weight on shoulders, creeping into my back and arms.
It’s like I am on fire, but I have to stay still.
I am consumed, body and soul,
and I am trying simply to hold on to
my wounded hope.