Month: July 2019

Empty dreams, spilling from
 A tattered mind, alone.
 Callous and cold the world
 Etching notches in my soul. 

 Empty dreams, spilling from
 A battered soul, alone.
 Toneless and droll my voice
 Braying harshly in my mind.
  
 Empty dreams spilling from
 A ragged body, alone.
 Broken and bruised, abused
 Hard work and middle age. 

Segue

As day segues into night. As the conversation between mother and daughter segues from television into when her dad gets out of jail. As childhood segues into adulthood.

I am a bit bored at the moment, at Emergency Room with my Mom and the wait just drags on and on. The slow progression of time is never felt more acutely as when each second segues slowly to another as the waiting room fills and the clock on the wall seems to be stuck, then it runs backwards for awhile before creeping back forward. The slow dance of medical emergencies in a room full of interesting characters. Seeing someone need a cigarette so bad they hobble out to the street on the leg where they have been stabbed.

Waiting, as one drama after another unfolds as more people trickle in through the door. tick-tock, tic-tock

I want to write the perfect poem,

Laureate material to make my bones.

Dreams bigger than empty tomes,

Blood pounding, soul groans.

I want to write the perfect poem,

Transcending the limit of my soul.

Making my mark upon the world,

Spouting words that make you whole.

I want to write the perfect poem

Capturing your heart and soul.

See me through my words

An addict for your praise and love.

I want to write the perfect poem

Symmetry and rhythm, perfect form.

Laureate material to make my bones,

Fulfilling desires, unmetered I roam.

Such precious and fragile things, tied to our souls with gossamer threads, so easily cut and set adrift into the darkness. My heart aches somedays from the loss, peering out into the darkness, desperate for a glimmer, hoping to grasp at a straw, a reminder of how I came to be who I am today.

I have the worst case of writers block. Every thought i try to focus on is like waking up from a deep sleep and trying to remember the wonderful dream you were having, all you have left is the impression of the dream. Unfortunately no matter what you do it is gone beyond your grasp. My waking thoughts lately are just as elusive, they come upon me when I cannot capture them and flee from my grasp once I I try to commit them to the page.

And I want to Paint it Black. The essence of so much depressive angst captured in a timeless song. Sad part is I did not understand the significance of painting a red door black until a few years ago. For some the red door signified welcoming and refuge, by painting it black you were turning away from welcoming. I have always loved the song because it spoke to how my soul felt, a place of desolation and pain. Even with my new medicines I feel the undercurrent of those desolate feelings, almost like a rip tide tugging at my ankles ready to pull me back into depression. The medicine is no more than a band-aid some days and a very weak one at that.

Sometimes I think my real voice is lost in that current, too much self inflicted pain fueled by self doubts and circumstances of life leave me afraid to try to express myself. The words all feel so dark and I want to unburden my soul I just do not know how or want to just be perceived as a pessimist.