Not my home

The needles write love on my knuckles
while the blades write hate
I will not be stilled
till earth and water whittle me down
I could only wish
it would be quicker somehow
these waters are troubled
I’m crumbling as rubble
becoming the froth on the water’s edge
a slow release and decay
I wish to be dust not tomorrow but today
I am not a sabal palm
or anything other rugged
I cannot withstand eras
this earth is not my home but a cage

Sunday wordle: Something different to what I usually do.

Attempted to do a mini poem for every word for the Sunday wordle but my inspiration ran dry

Admit – A word that permits confession
               as if words are solid
               with mere flicks of the tongue
               that could cleanse our dirty ought not to do’s
               and what for but for redemption?


Flicks –   A scar picked with the bend of words cursed
              felt as if no other world exists
              outside of their narrative




Scar – The stream that flows through
             a rugged landscape
             with all its liquid cruelty chiselling
             us into formation
             sharp as an axe after transformation

Remember – Scars leave traceable tracks
                        of remembrance
                        faces fade but what was felt remains

Dirty – Earthing oneself as if we became some other
             cleansing in the soil to remember
             the dust that made us 

Hear – This pseudoforest sings your rite of passage
             crows scalding you, your disturbance
             of the rains tumult percussion.

There is always something that can live in the crevices of death

My words are cheap
and empty
just like me.

I say what comes
to the tip of the tongue
but underneath the letters
is a skeleton waiting
to discard this flesh.

I keep trying to commit to life, living
but I think I prefer death
without the dying
maybe I’m just afraid
of continuance

Like how the world turns no matter
the begging for it to stop
or how there is always something
that can live in the crevices of death

Because what the fuck does that mean to me?
It’s no comfort to me
that our energy continues to feed
the continuance of this monstrous world’s greed

~

Alternative ending


Because what the fuck does that mean to me
when the earth consumes you
while I’m still above the soil
shedding skin, dying and therefore still living?


Depression with a capital D

Depression is hard to recover from because as much as you don’t choose to stay miserable, it feels like a choice between staying miserable or faking it.

And the faking in of itself takes its toll on you when inside you’re anything but okay.

Depression makes it, so you also don’t see the point in recovery because, after all, you think that life is pointless anyway.

That, along with trying to fake it, is the ultimate struggle.

If life is pointless, why bother recovering?

I come up against this all the time.

People say Depression lies to you.

I say it doesn’t.

Who is right?

Obviously, I think I’m right. Depression tells us the ultimate truth that life is pointless in the grand scheme of things.


I’m always fighting this struggle inside; I can’t remember a time when I didn’t.

I don’t beat myself up for the same things as others, generally speaking, not to say I never do, I have my moments, but they’re few and far between.
I don’t beat myself up over a lack of success. Success never mattered to me because life is too pointless for it to matter.

But what I do beat myself up time and again for is not going through with the ultimate expression of this pointlessness, for being a coward for not doing it.

Some nights it haunts me that I am too scared to do the one act that makes logical sense in the scheme of things.

What does that fear and anxiety mean? That underneath it all, I truly want to live? That’s what I’m always told. ‘It’s a sign you want to live.’ ‘It’s because you want the pain to be over, not your life.’

But what if it really is just a case of cowardice? I have been a coward much of my life, never mind being able to do the ultimate act to oneself.

Weird how cowardly a person can be while also feeling so utterly Depressed.

It’s a weird thing, too, because Depression can be an empty, numb feeling and too much pain. Either oscillating between feeling so numb you could be accused of managing to be ‘stoic’ only because you feel so little there is nothing to express, or you’re so distraught in life people tell you to calm down.