Depression
-
“Why else would the Cat Lady amuse herself with a storm of cats? Why else, if not to cover up her loneliness with cats? Obsession is that which one cannot move past from, for depression digs one into a hole, into the ground where one no longer walks, though is a particle of the past.…
-
I lay here, recounting the days that you have said those words upon the lakes. Upon where ripples cast ever greater waves, while loosening tides from your eyes, to your lips. There is great sickness, here. There is great powerlessness, here. Among me, so much is torn. Among you, there is much more to be…
-
“Whenever does the choice become clear to the awareness of finality? It is received upon the last effort to control, out of the lack of it.” – Modern Romanticism It is to the suicidal person, that a lack of control is their way to say that the end will be their way to have it…
-
“No person is ever content with their own lives, should they be filling the gap in other people with what they should be filling into themselves.” – Modern Romanticism I have treated pain as the source of my creativity. Though, these days, whenever I write a poem, it is not from inspiration. Sadness has always…
-
Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It…
-
She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying…
-
Broken mast, Torn sails, And no movement to burn a bridge While your eyes still set upon the horizon. Drifting motions Drown you to sleep, As tides gather our tears, While the earth relives our fears In trembling hearts. Folding your hands against your bosom So wide with tears escaping closed eyes, I can wear…
-
To the pale skin,A void dripsTears to stain cheeks that were never taintedLike this,Like how the petals in your mouthEcho your lost screams.For to shower your existenceWith fireWill only seek to end the coldnessIn your relation. You have eyes that never burn a pathFor your naked feet to walk.You have shoulders, continually caressedBy the hand…
-
“For the complications of love, there is remembrance. For the dramas of love, there is remembrance. For the sorrows and angers of love, there is remembrance. For each thing that drowns the love beneath, there should be as its cure, the memory of how such a union began. Only in those memories, can the present…
-
“Oh, the Schizophrenic is none so accursed as one might think. Their ability to look at the world differently can be a boon to those who see this realm for everyone, in a stagnant and uneven position. As I am one diagnosed with such an illness, it is then that I perceive what a human…
-
The funeral strikes the hour,As I waltz pastThe raining petalsThat do not,RepeatingDo notBurn, nor tearApart, at their solaced shower. Her hair falls back, lifeless,Never againTo be brushed by the hand,My hand,Facing the floor,Soaring towards the naked shoreWhere eyes can glimpse my stroking tears. I had loved,Meagerly loved,Simply lovedThe rose gathered amongstAll these forgotten petals.Her face,A…
Modern Romanticism 