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
depression
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?
Deaths cradle
the waves snap
at the edge
time chiselled in rocks
debris of war
aka life
a fossilised anguish
deep in the core of us
my brown eyes
darkening waters
the world a periphery vision
separating me from you
falling into the black
and I shall kick up no resistance
a night of forever
whispers me to sleep
in deaths cradle
The dying field mouse
A dying field mouse was the catalyst
For the tears turning to diamonds
Under the pressure of unrelease
An apologetic surrendering
To my failure to be a hero
My humanity drifting me apart
A wedge between me and my kind
A bridge I can’t cross
To look you in the eyes
And become a part of the rat race
I despise
That mouses black beady eyes
The abyss I looked into
Forever looking back
I am sorry little mouse
I couldn’t bring you peace
in your darkest hours
as you bid your long arduous goodbye.
All I see is death
Is there anywhere I can be someone else
I’m tired of being wrapped up
in myself
but I’ve seen out there
and seen the earth laid bare
it’s too much for me
all I see is death
looking back at me
mirroring my decisions and indecisions
falling into the abyss
of those eye sockets
Sunday wordle on a Monday: Scuffling with a ghost
I’ve been scuffling with a ghost
that fluttered by
after falling from the mouth of the sky
weaving through the dust
like tumbleweed
boom and bust
a story of angst
written only for us
Smiling irony
I saw myself in the abyss of someone else
and I can’t turn away.
Strip my skeleton bare of this flesh
in which this toxicity is enmeshed
The smiling irony
of the skeleton underneath
Survival instinct is my enemy
Survival instinct is my enemy
he’s always there when I try to be free
there was a moment when I thought
the end would come
but he kicked out
and I survived another fight
My survival instinct is my enemy
why won’t he listen to these thoughts in my head
I want to be returned to the earth again
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 