Depression
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She tells my pain to wait. As if water can fall after I’ve twisted a knob to a faucet. This heart, twisted, knotted in its infinite veins, spread like tree roots to an age of a tree that has already fallen. These eyes have gained flashes. All those empty rooms, filled with one more hollow
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Wide letters.We were holding on,while recognizing.Those shapes. These marks.They have stuck like glueto these gray hauntsin the washing blue. Worded. Remembered.Burning ships that tag along.Fated noosesthat hold up bottled necks. Stored messages for the sea.Stored letters that go unseen. Who shall hear our screams?Who shall worship our stars,put out near firelightwhere we ignite another rose?
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Love remains a fire, roaring in a man’s heart. One long look runs out towards a feeble horizon much like a rope. A rope, a link from one journey to its never-ending stay. He can see that sun falling. It falls, as one tears can, patient upon its place to his cheek. Those tears do
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Mothers tosslast remains of comfort,nestled to their sonsnestled in the sun.Some Reaperbrought them to sleep.Somewhere in Hell,the fire yellsthe sounds for the knell,as the funeral burns, to thewalks towards the sea. As all masked facesare singing for lifelessness,in the emotionlessstances, to the stance of the patriotwarring to the war of caught soilin their eyes. As
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Feint. Ingloriousto the thuds of formsagainst the gentle earth.One blooming pair of lipsare rounded in flesh,born to undressone body dressed in black. With all the tears of Neptune,sighing in eternity’s doom.For arms, lovers walkedwithout miles to skip.Under stars, lovers talkedcaught in the moonlight’s anchorthat brought them buriedelsewhere. For toil,above the soil,she carried his heartfar into
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Blown free from armsof a tree, leaving dust in a fall,settling in the handsof winter to its call.Am I here, given a blanket of cold?Offered a quilt of somethingnot for me to scold – in truest gratitude,that the faces of emptinesssee more in me than the shadowswhere I lay, underneath. Under where faint droplets of
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Here’s a stone. There’s a trail.Burning fingers will hurl what it canwhen the past will bandagethe tomorrow. When the past will reminda farewell to the openwindow, or the open fieldof the purpose for day to fade. When morning comes,leave me beneath these sheets. When mourning runs,bring it back, riding the sigh, – the wind, the
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In the dark, these eyes are shut to gray. Inside stained hearts, there is a weight to wield on marches, where hands shield – faces, from the rain. Dirges and dirt, funerals and broken vows to guard against pain. Disconnect me, reconnect belief – in the vivid hurt. All that I grow in gardens of
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There was, to a sea where no sun chooses to rise, a morbid fascination with life. With the hope, with the face that would be shown in the reflection upon the waves; this was where someone did look upon. From his balcony, all he ever saw was reflections. Reflection of stars, of the moon, and
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To assure the solemn, then begin to reassure that one in those depths. Assuming first that a man here is not crying because of the weather, as no dark clouds exist within the sapphire-blue skies. Omit then that they could have been the culprit to his mood. If the sun is great and bright, then
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“It’s as though those mental health symptoms were never there, and you were on a drug that tapped into the placebo effect. You were experiencing a hard time. You were desperate. You reached out, and what you brought back was relief in a bottle with a special child’s lock on it. The cap. When you
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I did. I handed you the rope, while you chewed the air with it. I loved, indeed I loved, drying my tears, licking my wounds. Chasing tails, sharing stares beneath thunder and moons. Choking on the bones of the dead. Was there ever enough envy? The summer, back, the winter, black with snow to disguise
Modern Romanticism 