Sixteen Hours

It’s over and begun again

Before I was awake to contemplate my place therein

And now there’s decisions to make before another day is wasted;

Time to get out of bed and make the most of who I am.

Sixteen hours to occupy.

There’s money I need to make,

Feelings I need to hold at bay,

Friends I ought to engage with

Dreams of mine to explain;

I know I should write another poem,

I know I should do more for myself,

I should work harder to realize my potential,

To help others and bring more beauty into the world,

Oppose oppression and lift up the beaten down,

Make new memories and new connections into love,

Write meaningful stories as impactful as I am able,

Speak truth to power and lead others to something more.

Sixteen hours.

A day’s weight to carry and divide

With all the urgency of our dwindling time.

My God, I need a release and space to hide,

Some poison to feel temporarily satisfied,

A window to the make believe, to live a life that isn’t mine,

Immediate pleasure, to be ok alone and pacified.

A day’s tension and relief , begun again, immobilized,

Consistent as death with all the awareness of being alive.

It needs to end, this state of being that leaves my paralyzed,

Because all the stress within a day hurts less

Than witnessing your life go by unrealized.

Depression Cycles

Silent waves sink perpetually through my chest.

Someone like me shouldn’t think too much alone.

Graves remind us that something can be nothing.

Something about you leads me back where I’d begun.

 

Lying to pacify the waves,

Dying to be worthy of my allotted time.

 

Wind and snow flow endlessly from my foundation.

Warmth and touch are more like burning teeth.

Better than wearing a heart that’s butter-soft.

How long can I hide from thawing in your spring?

 

Lying to savor little stops in my misery.

Dying a little more to feel comfortable alive.

My Recurring Themes

Being loved for me

Without expectation or fantasy

Seems difficult to believe

With my experience of me.

Not so much a wreck,

I survive and reflect

On which parts feel neglect

Like an Art without affect.

My solace is stained,

In my solitude contained

With a sadness ingrained

And expression estranged.

I mumble and shake,

Needs pulsing and awake,

Demanding that I break

Whatever is at stake.

I’ve worn out these flaws,

Dissected their causes,

Accepted my losses,

But still wrapped in their familiar claws.

Why Is There No Perfect Place?

A world to be happy in,

To be lost in,

Just to rest again

Without this stress,

This uncertainty,

This anxiety,

Taken hold of me

Having hurt.

Show me mountains,

Show me fountains,

The sublimest

Of their kind.

Let me stay there,

Waste away there,

I shouldn’t dare

But I would

To sleep forever

In beauty’s tether,

A watcher weathered

Down to rocks.

The Broken Heart Of A Thief

The thief’s heart broke

When sleight of hand failed

To hold onto his refuge

Inside another’s care.

Cold-empassioned power

Over objects he desired

Dissevered him form owning

Up to his affairs.

Compassion held at length,

Practiced sparingly at best,

Serves a frigid education

On attatchment’s frail grasp.

Cleverness and cunning

And other secrets of the craft

Stole nothing more than money,

Indifferent to the last.

Clasped in no one’s arms

And kissed by nothing’s lips

To procure another hour

In which to exist.

The theif consumed a fifth,

Broke the bottle, cut his flesh,

Threw himself through fire

Till he physically was numb,

But the bleeding never ceased

In the lovelessness of loss,

His temper always burning,

Wishing feeling would be done.

At length, despair entrenches,

Cruelly cradled in its womb

With his temper snuffed to ashes

And abrasions scabbed away.

To live or not to live,

To steal and not to give,

Decisions made in silence

Over living on this way.

Is it some force of fate

That the labor he hates

Is the credit he desires

Now that all else is dead?

He begs for bitter toil

As a mercy to his hate,

Hoping somehow to be healed

From his existential dread.

The thief turned to begger,

Not for money or relief,

But for service to another

For submission to defeat.

Humbled in desperation,

Pleading to be re-loved,

Bleating for a shelter

Possessed at someone’s feet.

The heart hurt more than hunger,

The misery worse than rage,

The spleandor of his plunder,

The thief, for love, would trade.

Please Love …

It’s relieving;

A passion, intellect, and creativity

In a mind that’s not my own.

Intricacies of thought

In curling spirals interwove

Between the heart and dreams

Of an identity aflux

With wants and contradictions

Too personal to touch.

I admire you

For careing too much

But regardless carrying on

For every scalpel to your heart

And every nail in your palm.

Through bleeding and rust

From trust turned to deciet

By the quivering hands

Of one once at your feet.

I’m touched

Just to know you’re alive

Helps in feeling less alone

When depression’s winter chill

Seeps into teeth and bone.

If a thought could reach

From my bossom to yours,

I’d give as much love

As your heart could endure.

Sane Island

The extrordinary rapture

Of shared sadness

Contrasted with

The sane simplicity

Of solitary silence.

Tension ebss

As depression flows,

The calming skies

Draw cooler air

For a fresh breath.

Between every storm

A fleeting isle

Of refuge,

Whispering peace

Through the enshrouding mist.

Laying back,

Soaking in respite

Like gentle waves,

Allowed to open up

With nothing to make you afraid.

Luna Under Ashes

I awoke,

Unsure of who I wanted to be.

Ashes fell from the overcast sky.

This happens every now and then.

I watch while making up my mind.

My possessions do little to assist,

Insufficient to help define.

My wandering thoughts distract,

Muddling every link I find.

A fluttering flake of ash

Descends and falls upon my eye.

I’m coated in the grayish dust

But still, I can’t decide.

I remember I was something,

But I know I don’t want that.

It lasted while I could,

But it isn’t where I’m at.

From gray to gray the sky revolves

And then from gray to black.

I’m shrouded in an ashen cloud,

Alive and inexact.

A vague idea still persists,

But it’s tangled up in doubt.

Endeavoring to fix the form

That’s tarnished in and out.

My restless mind has overstrained

And craves to leave me deep.

I’m swallowed under piles of dust,

Thus blanketed I sleep.

 

The tinkling sound of water

Streaming down

A silver fountain

Sweetly soothes

My troubled mind

Like smiles from precious friends.

I yawn and stretch

My brittle wings,

Glad of being found again.

Soaking in the pool,

The water crisp

And crystal clear,

I find I’m staring back

At my reflection unobscured.

“Love,” she said.

“You’re beautiful and

All that you should be.”

I close my eyes

And hold my breath,

Then plunge into the deep.

 

 

Kennel Lullaby

Philosophic curios

Inspire as much as they distract.

12 degrees Fahrenheit

A sapping chill in the stale air.

Lack of sleep

In tandem with vitamin deficiencies.

Perfected poverty,

Enamored with the beautiful and the cruel.

 

Sleep, my love

Let not your heart be troubled.

Sleep, sweet one,

Think not of days to come.

Fall, falling deep

Below the tempestuous waves of worry.

Falling into sleep

Beneath the surface of your anxious storms.

Feel, not think,

The gentle rhythms pervading your chest.

Feeling, just feeling,

Warmth and rest and nothing more.

Sleep, precious one,

Webs of shadow enwrap your soul.

Precious, precious sleep.

Nothing matters, not at all.

 

Rest now in the darkest deep,

Wrapped snuggly under boughs

Of thickest willows.

The garden of shadows,

Welcoming you in open arms

To slumber and to hide.

 

 

 

Worse Then Hate

The extent of Justice

Limited by selfishness or fortune.

As is the extent of Love

limited by hate or the void.

The tyrant, to me more despicable

Than emptiness, the more strong.

Rage breeds destruction

As the quiet breeds death.

Nations, values, and ideals

Live or die by chance.

Time devours all there is

Noble, wicked, or in-between.

Hollow hearts crave sensation

As the sick and dying crave life.

The disimpassioned mistrust love

Misery, ever the more reliable.

Conquest or chaos seem like

Solace to the dispirited.

Surely anything is better

Than dwelling on empty chasms.

If chance dictates love

I can play it win or lose.

If purpose is a pipe-dream

I can revel in fantasy.

If ignorance is bliss

Then sadness is the more profound.

If life is pain

I’ll take it over nothing.