A stream of consciousness 2

The sounds drew ripples around us
containing us
wrinkled and transformed
waves of consciousness anchored
bearing witness to this gathering
of all matter created in our image
a conglomeration of everything and nothing
a hoard of haves and have nots
a buildup to ‘just fucking stop!’
Too much, too much one
too much none
a climatic climb
an anticlimactic drop
rust falling from antiquated props
traditions burning candles
with prayers answered, not
swindled of thought
trajectories yet untold
falling below this ocean
of accumulations sold.

Dunno

I’ll smoke another cigarette
to put another nail in my coffin
I keep thinking I might be getting close to rest
but still, I keep on going
torn between fear and loathing
Why do I keep trying to do my best
Can’t I just stay in tracksuit bottoms and vest
loafing around with no will to do anything
but in jest

Why is everything always about progress
what if I just want to stay here
where I regress?

They say it’s okay not to be okay
but I still think I feel ashamed
Is it okay to not be okay
and stay the same?


The waves he broke

I regress
that child long since passed
coming of age the bark was etched and sketched
autumns blush hushed into the movement
falling gracefully as if all was as it was meant to be
a trail of desire he’d written into the landscape
he was wild as a deer
weedy and nervous
easily flushed
trailing away from man
he ran like the river below
bubbling and frothing with too much flow
branches snapping under the waves he broke

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

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.

Life isn’t beautiful

I’m tired of life
It’s always full of emptiness
we fill our time with TV
And any other screens
moving wallpaper over the teeth
underneath
that grind us

Tonight I don’t care for that nature’s green
it’s all a rollercoaster ride
beneath those canopies
pain and suffering hide
At least in winter, it’s plain to see
illusions revealing their skeletal remains

A butterfly isn’t beautiful
it’s a flutter of a moment
it’s death painted pretty
A blackbirds song isn’t melodic
it’s desperation dressed as music
trying to hang onto dear life
and I have to ask, why?