Poem: Explaining the Void

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I’ve never felt a pain quite like this before. 

I don’t even know if you could term it as easy as pain. 

It’s an ultra-concentrated feeling of utter despair 

Seasoned with sadness, anger, and other unnamable feelings I cannot grasp. 

It’s like the life has been taken from my soul like a plant starved for light or one not watered enough and completely starved for weeks on end. 

Only being fed just enough to survive, but barely.

It's like a survivor eating bark to keep on surviving, waiting for search and rescue to find them cuddled up to a bloodied volleyball.

It's like stabbing through each bandaid you put over a newly dressed wound and changing it repeatedly since you keep bleeding through.

It’s cutting off an appendage and having to repeat the sordid story ten times until someone realizes you’re bleeding all over the ER floor eight hours later. 

It’s being told you’re not on fire when you clearly see the flames or told you’re not drowning as you take your last full breath.

It’s being told you were misunderstood when you explained that 1+2=3 when the clear answer is definitely 1, and maybe you should go back to math class because clearly you misunderstood the basics. 

It’s bleeding out in front of people who know you don’t bleed that much and then acting like it’s an average Tuesday while their feet are stained red. 

My chest is full, my heart is numb, I feel full of emotion, yet none at all. 

My body hurts, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth because I long to scream that I’m not all right, but everyone’s wearing earplugs and can sleep soundlessly through the night.

It's The Little Things

​You’re the calm autumn wind,

The one that chills my feverish skin,

You’re the perfume of wood stove fires,

Of fresh coffee on to brew,

You’re the breeze through my hair, 

As I imagine you there,

You’re the daisies in the meadows,

We passed that one summer day,

 

You’re the rushing river current,

And drizzling of the rain,

Your voice melodic like the crickets,

Chirping under an aurora sky,

Your eyes the color of honey,

Doused in sunlight,

Intoxicating me slowly,

But if that’s my undoing,

I’ll be quite alright,

 

Your tone as delicate as footsteps in the snow,

Your gaze as strong as my will to cling,

To the sunset behind your eyelids,

Your gentle nature an addictive drug,

To a battered soul like mine,

Of all these central things,

That reminds me of you,

The most significant reminder, hands down,

Are the moments I spent with you. 

Let Me Espresso My Thoughts

 (Response poem to Billy Collins Morning pp. 31)

Alas, you love mornings more than the night,

 I understand, but I must implore you to try,

 The elixir of life under the umbrella of stars,

 With the ambiance of music and espresso healing a writer’s plight,

 

Why is it only morning you lack this despair?

 For me, daybreak lacks a certain flair,

 Until I roll out of bed and shuffle directly to the machine,

 To prep my freshly ground espresso beans,

 

No cold water will do,

 Nor brush to the mane will it tame,

 The single thing my body can execute,

 Is sway in cadence as the blessed espresso brews,

 

My vitamins give me no hope,

 Nor the books lining my shelves,

 Even with an open window or two,

 The hour has already soured my essence,

 And with espresso, do I allow it to soothe,

 My poor aching soul and the heart that awoke unfathomably bruised,

If we have anything in common, it’s the loath of the afternoon,
 In the depths of my own despair, I’ll settle for cold brew, too,

 Even with the cello music playing softly in my ear,
 And heavy clouds gently rolling in on the mist,

 I still love my nighttime espresso enjoyment,

 Mostly, when I haven’t collapsed out of my blessed bed,

 And ended up a crumpled, under-caffeinated mess on my knees instead.

Sorrow’s Camaraderie

With sweet sorrow, I stroll,
Between these mystifying footpaths,
Her countenance is gentle as she leads,
Me through a hall of emotive congruences,
We progress through twists and through turns,
Not with my hand in her hand,
Or, like friendly friends,
More forward, she escorts me,
Like friend and foe,
Into the ethereal unknown,
Oh, how I hate my long-suffering sorrow,
But such a gentle foe she is,
If I should wake up before tomorrow,
I pray she concedes me the rise of the morn,
At last, she can grant me a few rays,
When more time I spent in darkness’ gaze,
Sorrow, not too far behind,
Much like a brusque breeze,
She finds a way to burrow,
To unravel my frames moderate disease,
Trading instead an infliction,
Until I'm undone and positively futile,
Her skillful work is overall exhaustive,
And more potent than when she’d first instigated,
Her easy watch as I wallowed,
Instead of racing ahead and outrun,
In her footsteps do I shadow,
My distress completely undone,
As I stay astride this loved one,
The only one who is want to care,
The one who understands my hollow core,
Until my reserve strengthens again,
To whence I can lead on,
I’ll follow her into the dark,
Oh, sweet friend,
My gentle foe,
My one true love in my sweet sorrow. 

The Two-Way Mirror of Despair

 Through the thick and the thin, through far and wide,

Through the years and years, I’ve suffered and withdrew with,
The sorrow of depression, through and through,

You never made me feel inadequate,
For all the things I’ve been through,
Through the thick and the thin, though far and wide,

Through years of nightmares turned true,
You held me close and still, even with,
The sorrow of depression, through and through,

You kept me close to your heart,
And mellowed my innermost storms,
Through the thick and the thin, through far and wide,

Through this year of heartache and break,
We tried to muddle through, the muck that mental anguish grew from,
The sorrow of depression, through and through,

Waiting for an ounce of normality,
To see me through to you,
Through the thick and the thin, through far and wide,
And the sorrow of my depression, through and through,

Nocturnal Masquerade

  My fears in dark masks appear, 

 As visions, they sway a dance most obscure, 

 They flit through my psyche, 

 A galvanized mirror, 

 A bemused locale for these spirits, I trust, 

 This display of marionettes parades one after the other, 

 And in my mind's eye, 

 The portraits all blend into one another, 

 As the break of day begins to make way,

 In the blush of blithe rays,

 A laughable offense, I'm sure not intended, 

 In the darkness, or the hereafter, 

 They prompted quite a fright, 

 Of fevered dreams they undoubtedly were, 

 When left without a defense to my lucidity, 

 Oh, they caused me quite a stir, 

 They weaved a tale of worry and woe, 

 Displayed it in accounts with horror projected, 

 But as I woke the morn after, 

 Laying saturated in the adept shield of light, 

 As I view the terrors of the night before, 

 Through visions, like memories, like opening visual doors,

 They stopped being fearsome with no great malady, 

 If this is what haunts me in the obscure of night, 

 In confidence, they can visit as often as they like, 

 For if such austere fears try as they might, 

 I'll gladly turn in for yet another feverish night, 

 Where fears bedecked in masks once worn,

 By a more fearsome foe than they,

 Adorning the facades of decidedly milder peer, 

 I'll take it as a 'fearsome' tale, 

 And not fear the fall of slumber anymore.

Amid the Leaves of Dusk

 Like the wind, I’m not carefree,
 An ever-changing breeze, I may seem,
Yet maybe a hurricane, Oh what a cliché,
 Whatever I am, I am anyway,

Upon one day, I may clarify,

 While hidden amongst the wilds, I hold a unique alibi,

If discovered, I’m anxious to admit,

 All the iniquities I have omitted,

Where I blend into the backdrop of darkness, a true asset,

 I save wonderous souls a most great upset,

For when I hid amongst the leave the trees had spat,

 My footsteps concealed in nature-blessed format,

For once, I longed to be seen, but my soul attained this fancy absurd,

 When between pages and leaves, all words had been rudely blurred,

As I am of only flesh and blood,

 Where once my desolate tears were want to flood,

I secured my skirts and ran from afar,

 Eager to escape so as not to defend my scars,

In the depths and hallows, the wilds allow,

 This strange sense of understanding somehow,

With likened folks, I sensed I would annoy,

 Their calm dignity to my admissions tended to destroy,

My entire existence, as if I was an afterthought,

 Then there’s just I, a small speak, a blot,

So quickly was I to overlook,

 Until I ran far and wide and undertook,

Where trees cannot bemoan,

 As I set forth a new home, my final capstone,

Where leaves and moss hide me from sight askew,

 As If they’re saying I belong there, too.

Poem: Waxen Romantic

Submitted for my Creative writing class:

I long not to be likened to a flower,
 A cacti I strive to be,
Cruelly misunderstood in my affections,
 Prickly, if you as much as try to touch,
Where I still blossom a stately bloom,
 No such burden to stand in one attitude,
With sufficient room to reach,
 My succulent stems protrude,
With spines and my waxen films,
 I bask quite contentedly, safe in my skin,
Able am I to comfortably mature,
 In the confines of my armor,
Unlike a bud in any field,
 None will pluck me to adorn their sill,
For I know I'm agreeable from afar,
 As a cacti is unique to be,
In reverse, I flourish,
 Against the grain sits well with me,
As ageless as I impress,
 We resemble each in sublimity,
When gratitude is found lacking,
 And not one seems to look twice,
If notice is not had,
 I supposed my lone company’s not half bad,
Unlike with florals, their fondness lively,
 And fauna a healthful jade glow,
Then, with my spined self, it's not all that bleak,
 And that is all I pray to know,
Before all of my lengthy tomorrows,
 In sorrow, I shall not want to wallow.