Posts Tagged ‘sadness’

I have longed for a kind word,

or a touch. I have

begged for this much.

And while I’m trapped

between four walls, it seems,

everyone else is

falling in love,

or finding happiness-

while I’m- just-

stuck.

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The walls know of your financial trouble.

The walls have heard you and your wife

scream at each other,

volume and pitch ascending, a two-person opera.

The walls know your children’s contained secrets.

They know what your son looks at

on his computer, and lusts after.

They listen to your daughter’s conversations

with herself, her diary, her friends.

The walls know your struggles,

they see blood boil under your skin,

see tears run like beads of quartz

down hills and valleys of your face,

hear each footstep- feel the hammers

or leopard steps they could be.

The walls know you.

They have Guarded you.

While some people go

for cigarettes and alcohol,

they light up to calm down

or take a shot

to make the next move,

I’m not one of these people.

Now, I’m not bragging

or nagging, because this emotional

stew I sup can burn and boil,

or freeze and shatter me.

As messy as life is-

with the bottom of the pit

being brought nearer by red-faced,

angry screaming,

and hitting that dark place

where one curls with legs and arms crossed,

like a baby in the womb, within

a dark corner of nameless room,

I would rather ride this

strange and wonderful tide

(for my pen thrives in this

mixed, primordial sea)

because I know there are smiles

and applause from which

I get my high.

is not impossible.

Van Gogh’s body fought off gangrene

to live with it.

Orpheus survived the depths of Hell

to live with it,

for however short a time.

It may be difficult,

one may become a phantom,

or cycle through labyrinths of fire, water, and snow,

but they will survive.

The human heart has adapted

to be a phoenix:

reborn with new fervor

after fizzling out.

Only in moments such as this,

when static speaks

more clearly to me than any words

or mellifluous sounds,

when tear tracks sting

from cold winter air,

sadness generates a volcano in my chest,

and each limb is distinct and separate-

every nerve hot cold, numb or electric,

do my cares not pass

and I feel a part

of something greater and infinite,

as if I am only partially in this world.

And only in those moments

do I feel unafraid, while closer

to the End.

A letter

that shouldn’t have had

those things

written on it,

those venomous worms

of ink,

wriggling around: friend or

enemy, friend, enemy,

friendenemyfriendenemyfriendenemy.

Of course she had to stick her nose into this.

I can’t complain,

you can’t get away from her…

not yet. She is your mother after all.

A letter that shouldn’t have been sent.

Not with those words…

The song playing in my head

as I write this is

not yours:

“You always hurt

the ones you love,

the ones

you shouldn’t hurt at all…”

I wish you luck from afar.

Not with those words.

I’m not sure we’ll ever speak again…

not with those words.

Not with those words.

Love, my careless love,

I wrack myself dry,

and stare at clouds above

which fly

in shades of tarnished silver,

and pour down their judgement

as they roll by.

 

My careless love

has left me alone.

Beating me dumb,

huddled like a stone

in silence and

confinement. Solitary due to my own faults,

left only with this pulsing drone.

 

Love, o careless love

of mine. Restless heart-

frantic like a shackled dove-

you only tear yourself apart,

you cause women to withdraw,

you grip them like an animal’s claw.

Your madness is your personal art.