Lighthouse

There is scant light on this stormy

morning. No dawn has edged on

that blind horizon that seems to

break the starry reflection 

in monstrous swells, and foamy crests.

There was no destination planned,

a tiresome task to run away,

to find some new world for my

eyes to single out purpose, or excitement,

yet, in a fortnight, I’d forgotten.

I lost my way in open sea, and searched

for that flash, that glimmer, that

ends itself and repeats.

The constellations are my only

companions, no rowdy crew to drown

my introspection, and my small

vessel, little more than a raft,  

tosses back and forth, a

thrall to antipathic nightmare.

Without an inkling of 

the nearest land, at the mercy of

the tempestuous sea, 

there is no beacon of lighthouse,

no sanctuary, nor prayers

uttered for me.

Ideation

I wonder what would 

tempt to cut away the life in me.

To feel it rush out, spilling

onto the ground. To allow harm 

to myself.

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 

dreamless sleep.

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.

When a Professor Tells Me to Make Some Friends

How many times have I been told
I am not “something” enough?
Not quiet enough to hold my tongue.
I have offended so many with
flagrant opinions.

My laugh is too loud, too long,
and annoying, one even told me
it kept us from being friends.
Why be a friend to someone
like that?

I cannot stop thinking enough
to relax, and I have killed
relationships by obsessing.

Some take pity, and when I
become too much, they admit
that they were my friend
because they felt sorry.

Others simply stop talking
and weeks will go by
before I realize that it was
nothing, a friendship of utility
not virtue.

I have long wondered
whether friendship was worth it.
Wishing for friends frivolously,
wandering in alcoves of loneliness,
and why shouldn’t I walk with
broken trust, and bitterness?

Despite this, I hope
and in optimism I’ve found merit.
Where true love is to accept
without expectation, criticism,
or condemnation,
and that understanding
is a lesser task.

Though our numbers are few
we are not one thing, posing
as another, and I have learned
that friendship far surpasses
changing for one person.

I’d Rather Be Socrates Unsatisfied

Hope is funny,
like a wiggly child,
excited for something
she’s never seen.

She bursts through
in joyous celebration,
praising every small thing,
forecasting new dreams for
the future.

She never truly leaves,
only staying silent while
Pessimism sours the psyche,
simply protesting with a
steady shake of her head.

Unfortunate that each trial,
stumble, fall, and heartbreak,
makes it hard to wait,
but when you are ready,
she is there.

She seems impractical
as an adult, with effervescent
optimism.
It’s bad enough
to be disappointed,
without her becoming
forgotten.

Blue but not Depressed

He says depression takes too much commitment, and he doesn’t feel it
is long-term.
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.