Depression
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Off track,behind the timesof everyone else’s smiles. Fill me with blue,remind me of the sea.Elevate me with the moonwhile the sun goes to sleep.I can run around,toss aroundwhile the earth jogs its mile. Into November,where eyes can rememberthe speech that told a patternin the leaves.The fallen, scattered.As those swept withinwere against the grain,were sun-blocked,were in
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“What a person most expects is everything they shouldn’t. A gift can be expected, though only at the same level as offering a server a tip. It had been expected, that for the server’s excellent hospitality, they were given something for that reason. Although, what is a gift? What is ever defined as a true
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Reversed water sweeping your tearsback beneath, back to sleep. Oh, how I incline to reclineyour form upon deserts,to take the stones where youlost raindrops. Bold in the dark,raven atop the waters.Your tears, a curtain.Your fingers, bars to a sideways cage.Uncounted scars, same with stars,gleaming as gunshot woundsupon the soft calmnessof one devilish sea. You gain
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You were to beEverything, upon a closed eye. Raining the fog in the remembranceTo two shut windows,Closing for frost’s awakening. You slumber in the nothingTo a heart that skipsAs a stone upon the old lakes. A worried vision,A sealed encasement, where waterWas never the entrance,Never the griefThat wanders within puddles,Never seeing reflection. Listening to vibrations,The
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To the dark part ofA heart that never forgivesItself, to belong uponThe light side. To the spark that never drainsFrom the memories, from distant kisses.When the wound heals,Will I ever remember you? Your eyes fell to ruin,Your breath shattered withYour lungs that took my wordsTo heart. Your glance fell short,While I scooped up the dirtTo
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SlippingOn puddles made fromShades, further inThe loss of a sane self.Sense of selfTo the waters that bleedFrom dry wells. WadingIn the tear-stained moment.A film, a droplet,A occurrence that did not occurExcept for deep within.The shadows kiss,Bleed to protect their kin. RunningFrom the porcelain sounds,The immaculate praises,Inborn promisesTo love, while death wins its prize. She gained
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Weak beneathWhere glassWears itself thinIn dark reflection.A mind that finds easy meaningIn decaying truth,In hands that pull backFrom the stem of a thorn,From the red of a rose. I keep what is painful upon drunken times,Weeping in shadowed pillows.Find me,I will be near and nowhere.I will be wilting in the bathtubCleaning stains,The memories that are
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“It is grief that stains the living soul. It is not peace with the bereaved, since it is peace with the dead. Those who grieve are in pain, because they wish to be with the dead. To recover from this, reverse the wish to be with them, to the understanding that the dead live on
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For fewest glimpsesFor tears that strayAside, for the life of mineThat bleeds a dewdrop too heavyFrom hanging eyelids. For a little warmthFrom a glass that shot meOn the crossroads, of painstakingLife in the fragile glimpseThrough reflection uponLost warmth,Drowned in circles – Upon eyesThat wept for the sunrise,Fell for the settingTo another deceased day. Another drunken
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Still-life. A stilled life. He weeps to form a garden made from her debris. He weeps, and he cannot even leave. He weeps the funeral back into togetherness, to the final time in being the blank witness to a sunshine that distanced itself so well. It was the final time to view the light, even
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Show your symptomsFor your faint disregardTo what is stagedAs the props upon the lake,Washed in velvet tears,A material to soakAll of nothing. Sadness reusesBleak waters that crawlTo your knees, given bentTo another source of devotion,With the submissionThat leaves you to drainYour discolored eyes. The sun never warmed you,With it at your back,With heaviness for all
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Tame the positionOf one beast who bottledHis sunshine in the hourglass,While time kept us frozenTo observe the past. You were to the worldAll it aimed to ignore,All death desiredTo give birth to,Upon the murky shore. You liveTo keep singingYour pain, for the wildernessWhere isolation grows heaviestUpon leaves made of your disease. Why choose to forget?Why
Modern Romanticism 