The days in which melancholy seems to get the best of me
Without the rain, there would be no rainbows
And without your anger,
The storms would cease.
We are all looking past the future,
Which looks past us. The past hides.
It knows we want it back.
Anger, it makes the world lack of smiles.
Smiles would make the world lack of anger.
Astringent tempers fly hard and fly fast,
But the ferocity of your words
Are what stab me the hardest.
They are ones who leave scars
Too deep to be healed.
Where the middle
There are no endings,
We grow forever,
Saving the waning for another solitude.
I see the eyes of my youth
Staring me down,
Vicious to the bone.
Woman versus girl,
Life versus death, hate/love/despise/adore/disdain/passion.
There is no end. There is no try. There is no
“I don't feel like it, I'll do it another day.”
When someone dies young,
Will there spirit get another chance?
Or are they gone forever?
We all live on in spirit, but our bodies,
They parish fast. They deteriorate fast.
A rose that is strong is one
That can outlive the coldest,
The harshest winter,
But I was crushed by walking feet.
On thanksgiving, I had nothing to be thankful for,
I had this family but what good is family
When it falls apart faster than my life?
While I strive for good things
For only me
What about everyone else
That I got nothing for?
Why did I buy those shoes
When I could have bought someone
Something they needed?
Why does my greed do this to me?
I lust for a reason.
A reason for understanding why.
I shout words into the wind
And they come slapping back into my face.
Why they never stay and blow with the wind?
Why they always come back?
Why they taunt me when I've had enough?
Why they leave me crying in a puddle of my own grief?
My hands are dry and rough,
I pick up my niece and I'm afraid
I will scratch her with my gross, dry hands.
Her tears give me tears,
We cry together for no reason.
Will there be a third for me to cry with?
I remember thinking
That the world is a loud place,
Everything is loud and
I'm thankful for deaf people
Who can have a conversation in front of me,
Without me even knowing what they're saying.
I wish all human life were this way.
I long for days
In which someone writes about me,
Instead of me writing about
I planted my blood into the ground,
The place overrun by weeds,
Thick blackberry bushes
And bushes of other sorts.
These bushes don't screw up the world
Like other bushes…
These bushes are my blood.
This backyard in which I cry
Is my blood.
But I have no more blood to spill.
I wonder if heaven feels my pain,
I wonder if heaven even feels me,
Which I would never trade,
Not for the most beautiful of gems,
For it is my own gem.
I've surrounded my own self
In cynicism and humor
Because I fear the sadness
That will probably end my life.
The sadness that determines
The rest of my life.
Some days I feel like nothing can be said,
And that is when I cry.
My emotions stuck on the tip of my tongue
And I cannot utter them out.
Some days, I cannot even spell things,
My head a jumble of
Lost thoughts trying to find there way.
Some people ask me if I know what depression is.
“That means the soul wants to leave this world.”
February 10, 2004
*Bear with me people, this has been a tough week and the months ahead are just turmoil in my mind. I've just been going through some rough situations and writing (duh) is how I deal with it, especially in this style.