Tag Archives: sorrow
Statues in the dark
Where do depressed people go
When the entire world suddenly feels as they do?
Back to their room, where one voice says – take them up on their offer
make a phone call
but the other voice knows they will not because
when you feel that down the last thing you can do is talk.
Where do depressed people go
when the entire world suddenly feels as they do?
Outside to empty streets / not reminded of what they fail to achieve
the silence, a balm on fevered emotion
for everyone judges what they cannot see
as others watch Pandemic movies behind closed curtains
the sad roam in search of meaning.
Where do depressed people go
when the entire world suddenly feels as they do?
they’re told it’s a disease as much as a broken arm yet
judgement is always a cudgel just one step away
even lovers rebuke and ask; Why can’t you get out of your head?
Do something helpful for a change, instead of navel gazing?
or worse, say nothing, ignore, over it, worn out
few can handle a season with dysmorphia.
Where do depressed people go
when the entire world suddenly feels they do?
For a quarantined period, it can even feel like fun
nothing of the permanency, nothing of that locked in sensation
pervading senses, shutting down, until all the dreams you had
are dust and ash on floor, you can’t even get out of bed, to brush your hair
or walk the dog, this inertia isn’t laziness, it’s a switching off
of life’s impulse and so the bulb dims eternal.
Where do depressed people go
When the entire world suddenly feels as they do?
This is how it feels every day, you struggle to find a reason, to steady yourself
into faking it, and surely, the falsehood runs its course and you’re back
with naught and nothing comes from nothing we’ve been all taught
self loathing reflects back in the unwashed mirror, a hateful creature
your worst enemy is between your ears, you hear only
the rebuke and chastising of that part of you wishing to be free
break out, break out, crawl, stagger, run get away
from yourself you cannot.
Where do depressed people go
When the entire world suddenly feels as they do?
trapped in a brain that doesn’t sit up and beg when ordered
motivation a distant memory, as much as you want there are
no magic pills or electric impulses powerful enough
to restart what has lain dormant and half alive
we are quarantined by our own demons they
made prisoners of us long before Covid 19
even those who love us, wish we were different
self hate is a woman without rocks in her pocket
yet
she walks to the edge many times each day
her reflection cries even as she no longer does
for tears are wasted after a certain time
fixed in place by broken ways forward
she seeks to drown the madness with one jump
and they sit on their sofas talking about how it will be called
the great epidemic, where we all stayed in place
not realizing for some of us this is
our hell already created and nothing new
we have been here before, we shall again
it is the wordless, grieving place of those
locked down by their minds in situ
watching the world build around them
statues in the dark
to a pandemic long pre-existing
where screams are never heard.
An imprint of harm
glassy echo, reflecting
repulsion
There, at the turning of your lips
Words you want to say, willing still
Anger swirling behind dark eyes
They walk calmly
Anything but
Appearance is a veil
I saw you once
Unguarded
Without your battlement
The disguise lay strewn
With other stolen objects
Mere indents in a soft bed
Your madness at the surface
Like a Hydra you panted
For release and weapons
None heard this request
All of you is secreted within layers
No one can unravel
You divide and multiply in your apparent cruelty
There is a token of delight
A brand for some and your bequeathing
Some are not set on this Earth for kindness
They live by the stain left in their wake
An imprint of harm
Slow the leash trains unwilling
Gradual uncovering, sin takes her high chair
In the pit of things you writhe nude and tarnished
We make our own hell with toys of old
Those picture books of loss and shame, shackles for the weary
I could pick you now,
a yellow rose,
your nectar just on the verge.
There are no rehearsals left, only curtain fall
As it grows dark
As the corners of today’s page furl
Empty rooms, homes without windows, drugs without users, a body untouchable, growing cold
As if alight sparing flame
Never to relive
Nor consume nor nourish
This terrible emptiness
As she feels the pain that comes afterward
Inevitable. Old. Crushing. Familiar.
She wants to run to you
But you’re long gone, if ever present
Diminished and relinquished
Pouring medicine down the drain, till needful of no refreshment
Even beauty turns to stone
Even love robs itself destitute
As lovers hate the very thing that made them burn
The taste in her mouth of ashes
Written across her brow in heavy stroke
The cross, the lentern, the falsehood
This room loses light as she gradually declines
On her knees, so many years without touch; lies in place of comfort
Words growing smaller and smaller
A shadow book within a grace freshly dug, till she can see no more but the internal crush of loss
She was an addictive personality who couldn’t get out of her mould, it stuck like gelo, that tendency toward
Melancholy and suicide
If you find her dead you can bet one of her vices is responsible
When she meets people who have not soaked their souls in cigarettes and vodka
Feeling more in the daytime bar than ever something clean and starched
Broken girl parts
Snapped in half before they knew how to stand up
Hers is a sickness, dances in pearls around her neck till pulled tight
Wanting the abyss of psychedelic music and dream of hashish
Intoxicate the pain, numb further urge to destroy what’s left
And push yourself inside me, join the sorrow dot by dot till we both burst
Such is the loveliness of sex in the fulment of grief
Replacing one pain with another small death
The telephone doesn’t ring
She doesn’t call or receive these days
The silence as palpable as the knife she carves her arms into ribbons with
They’ve danced this dance before
There are no rehearsals left, just curtain fall
Think of how it felt, long ago
Before the end, in the middle, lost now
The heaviness of her wanting is blunted by knowing
These people have only their irrevocable actions
Sparring with one another, the blood of first strike hitting white snow in masterpiece
Crimson against a hundred promises, a new form of murder
Sitting, watching herself go through the motions
Good girl who kisses her loved one, tucks in the bed sheets tight
Dreaming of broken glass down her throat, three grey birds and a fingerful of coke
The rage of impotence across flayed landscapes
That flesh and sinew long hung to cure, speaks nothing
Doesn’t forget the rebuke, even as forgiveness is yoked, chain on soft skin
To every ending
Time ticks down without mercy, and if she lives to your age
Just like you, setting the tableaux of your life, there’ll be nothing to say
But the horror of silence before deafening rain
Then she picks up her existing and leaves
Soon it seems, she was never there, just a handful of misspoken words and rage
Drinking clouds, the truth, spares the speaker
She has a generation of distillers and eyes that carry pain as if it were their child
Tonight she won’t be meeting you, she’ll keep on driving
There’s a drop off somewhere, she knows, a fateful road where the turn is sharp
And unexpected
Even for the most familiar driver
It takes a kind of control
She never ever possessed.
Mahogany
The train to my heart is very slow
Stopping at many stationsOn the crowded platform a young girl watches her mother go
She never turns around, the mahogany of her hair becoming indistinguishable against fading day
A girl who since loses sight
Listening rather than seeing
Smelling the impression of movement
Folded like a Spanish rose on my chest, I breathe you in
How you form words with your quick violinist arms
Taut tense musculature, willing air demons
Those same arms clutching me to you, heart beating, no words
It rained that day all day from morning to night
“That never happens here” you said, mouth full of plum
“The desert doesn’t like to give up its ghosts. Come here to me, come back to bed”
And I
In my shedding evening dress, trailing thought
Confessed my sum;
The train to my heart is very slow
Stopping at many stations
None to embark
Stay the course
In our chalked circle
Tracing abbreviated land with invisible hands
Till cactus give wild her bloom and color reborn
Your eyes in darkness, catching light, like wine beneath glass
Ransom
she’s ransomed for chunk change
by the betrayal of her inward gaze
pain and her varied pins
the reddened lips of an untruth
poised to strike
she stopped writing then as if
they etched her into stone and left her to moss
and rain
fall.
As a child she was told again and again
you will fail
she, being headstrong and determined
never did.
They said she wasn’t clever enough so she
left the first place prize on their desk with the words
don’t destroy futures
carved into the wood just like
her tomb.
As an adult she decided
there is no fate, you make of life what you will
by never giving up
and that worked well until the illness
turned her into a wraith and sucked the life force
out
leaving emptiness within.
No matter how hard she tried,
living
and its delights
did no longer appeal
she had a vested interest in
letting go.
God
did not speak to her
she tried calling but
the line was busy
all she could hear
voices under water murmuring
prayer, curses, little confessions
wrapped in violet leaves and cast
from sight.
Her blind faith
had improved
in the darkness she stumbled
alone because when you hit the bottom
there is rarely anyone there to pick you up
those people who pretend to giveashit really
don’t
they only suck the same air as you
noisily like cattle at trough
it is rare to find loyalty or even true depth
especially in people made of
empty promises.
So easy you see, to say, yes you mean the world to me
in fact if you did not exist, I would die surely
my life depends upon yours and I am unable
to imagine a day without you.
Such little words, running like little ink
spreading like little lies, falling like
little shoes thrown into lakes
before the drowning.
See here? Your smile and the benificence of
your factor? I could measure
the extent of your professed heart ache
in jelly beans and find
sugar is too sweet
truth has a bitter taste
especially when it lies
dormant and wilted beneath your tongue
a key without opening.
your falsehood, like an actress pealing her stockings down
slow and smooth
I think of the times I wanted to believe badly enough
I swallowed the whole cocktail
syrup and all
just to feel for one moment
something was real
and we all descend
like discarded play things
compelled to stay beneath the surface
lower in gravity we sink
until air is a daydream
until breath a distant memory.
Your loyalty had a hole in it
the size of your folded lies
and in darkness we find all things
reveal themselves
including the tarnish sitting just beneath
glittering promise.
So then, what of the day above? And its
mercy
radiating like hands
pulling us up through weeds
long have we been submerged
in the weight of betrayal
there in, our sickness no end
just the owl leaving treeline for his prey
sharp eyes scouring landscape
just the lost embrace before you
punched your ticket and entered
the void.
Here I am swaddled in
soyousaids
and words do not hold much
resonance with me anymore
I am a creature of pain and unsettling
rinsed in regret, I find no place
to feel certain
only that time will continue to count down
toward something eventual and quiet
like the sound of a clock that persists
after the end of the world
has bid her leave
to tick.
Holding Water
What I wouldn’t say out loud;
At a dinner party, when the conversation turns to
matters of personal identity and the such.
That I live in a country where
self-confidence is in the very water alongside Chlorine
And possibly many pissed out Pharmacuticals
I don’t know how they import it or how they bottled it
in the first place
but everyone takes a long swig
and grows up self-important and rarely doubting
their worth
A la the internalized cheerleader
I must therefore hail
from an island of thorns
because I didn’t get inoculated against
the sumptuous barbs
my skin punctures at the slightest retort
I bled easily even after I cauterized the wound.
Necessarily, this has caused some
discomfort
people don’t get how
someone can hate themselves
be a painted sin eater
for all insult
until that gobstopper of internalized anguish
turns on them and it feels like
it’s always been about hating the self
Such a natural elegant process of self harm
looking back in the mirror
wishing she could erase
the very DNA, the very face of her.
Now I have a second sight
for bullshit and fakes
and often I’m told; Give me a chance you never know!
But O I do
and I stay away from the saturating crowd
as they live their camera-ready lives
to the fizz and hiss of the insta-bulb
wondering if I will ever
feel differently or if this
deep phlegmy cough
will inhabit my very soul and become
a new lingua of self loathing.
Sometimes I see girls who
could have been me, but grew up
in a different world where
presumably they were inoculated against
self-hate at an early age and given a healthy dose
of worth and manifest ego
they seem like an identical twin who
was raised on grass instead of hay
in the sun instead of snow
and even though they still possess
the abhorant figure of myself
with her squinting mash of ancestral sabotage
I find I like aspects of them
as they flourish weed-like
unawares
there is a shadow
watching them
wondering
if I had grown up just like them
and taken my Happy Pills along with my self deception
what would I have gained?
What would I have lost?
I might resemble them but
I suspect, I would be nothing like them
except in the cracked glass of us
broken and repaired many times
until they can stand no more
to hold
water
Night becomes us
I push people away
as they pushed away from me when I first learned
that’s what people do
so run ahead and do it first
you might tell them your real age, or show them the scars in your skin, that usually does it
with online trolls who really only want a
mirror little narcissist
you might show them your face and all the welts that
lay invisible and divisible like trails of tears
finding only drought
you might reveal your defeats and play join the dots
with stories for each one and then you may
know me just a little
except I don’t want to be known and even as I write
I remain anonymous to myself
the perpetuation of a dream instead
where we dance sweaty and disordered with our hair
collapsed like flamenco skirts in rivers of ruffles
two people with thick manes and thin skin
I taste blood on your lower lip and the depth of it
makes a vampire of me
your pulsing neck is salty from your keening
we interlace our hands like church mice and bad girls and best friends and artful dodgers
I feel your fingers pulsing within me as together we cleave
so much comes from a body who wants and so little from one who does not
when I see you, I want to close my eyes and hold onto the image
how you stand, the light caressing your flawless skin as
oil might run her rivets down your elongation
If choice were a bird, I’d choose you again
And once more, with the release of my lips from yours
A song passed between mouths like a key
Open my heart, keep yourself there
If choice were a thought, I’d choose you again
And once more, with the capture of your ebony and ivory
You, who is seamstress to my soul, play your flute
I hear it behind my eyes in the vault of my trust
If you were a dream I should better wish to wake
Our drowsy love may keep us drugged by its tempest
Sleeping in the passion of your touch
As sun sets and night becomes us
Untitled #39
I forget
What I lived for back then
Maybe just hope
That indefinable future stretching unknown
It always baffled me how the young
Could give up and try to die
When there was always hope
And some sympathy for their tender years
I want to say to them
Wait until you get here
Then the going gets quiet
People don’t check on you
There is no sympathy for your failing
We’re supposed to be stronger
What doesn’t kill us, right?
Not true
Everything that’s destroyed me did not
Make me more resilient
That’s a lie we tell ourselves and our friends
Or maybe for some it’s a truth
Not for me
I feel with every battering less and less
Less willing to stand and fight
For why?
The illusion things will change?
The care that rarely solidifies
I am so good at lifting others up
So poor at building my house
Because I gave my faith to them
And made nothing for myself
Instead I hear, the voices of the past
Telling me why I’m worthless
And it isn’t just the past
It’s recent and the scar
Never heals
I am
Broken
I survived only to
Fall
I am hurt beyond description
I ache and feel pain every hour
Nothing I do seems to change
The sorrow of every day
It’s too easy to dismiss it away as
Clinical depression
It is not
I simply wish I could safely die
I wouldn’t even feel guilty anymore
I’m too tired to care
Maybe when you’re not cared about that’s what happens
I find it hard to understand why more don’t share my sentiment
I don’t enjoy life
I have no purpose
I have been left by those I loved
I stand alone
Not blaming anyone
Just seeing through
The bullshit
I wish right now
Life were a dream and death reality
An external sleep
No trespass no hope
It has long been gone
And I have tried for ages to hide my belief
There is no point
For whom?
There is a crack in my heart that runs so deep
Maybe it was all a mistake
I wish I could rewind until
I ceased and never had been
It is hard to want to undo yourself
As you continue to flourish
I am tired of trying
I feel that’s all I’ve ever done
It’s a bit of a delusion
Trying and being in pain
Why try? For whom?
If there is no one
I hear the bus
Letting off children
I remember
Being a child
I wasn’t happy then
It’s not who I am
My mother was right though she was wrong
Maybe I’m a lesson from which others learn
There isn’t as much meaning in everything
As we are told
Sometimes we just exist without meaning
And it’s ugly and long
Too long
I wish I didn’t know
How most books
End
Unaided by light
I was not born for loving
doctor said; It’s a girl
nurse thought; What a shame, life is harder on them
psychiatrist thought; She doesn’t want to be a mother, but let’s not tell her
grandfather thought; Another generation to abuse, watch her grow, but not too much
grandmother thought; Turn your face away. Do not witness, then it never happens
mother thought; I never wanted you.
…
when I carried you
you reminded me of a rock
I wanted us both to drown
except I would lie and float above
whilst you gulped salty brine
and free of your clutch, hail a boat
take myself somewhere, far from children
I never wanted
trapped by circumstances
anything to escape the confines of my day
but how?
…
I told this story many years later
by then I was
much older than my mother had been
when she gave birth
and in that jaundice saw
her lot
and shook it off
as any woman escaping shackle would
…
I do not blame her a bit
nor for her inability to love
me
though others she loves quite well
like folding napkins can be
an art
I do not feel anger toward her
even when she turned her voice from
human to machine
told me to go hang myself when I was ill
“you are too dramatic and I am not
going to take any of your soap opera anymore”
I should have tattooed those words and others
that cut deep and left a permanance
all over my body
because I hear them in my sleep
but the needle was blunt and my favorite song
played in someone else’s room
and the breeze was fresh and I wanted to
like my mother
run away from pain
so I did not hate her because
she is as much survivor as I
just doing what she has to
to maintain some semblance of
denial
…
it is not the fault of the broken
they cannot perform on cue or
find ways to put back together
shattered trust
though why she picked me of all the people in the world
to loathe
that I shall never understand
I can imagine she would respond, given the chance
oh but darling it’s because you are not worth loving
you are a disappointment and a liar and all things foul
she thinks I don’t know
she is wrong for once or twice or always
such is the calamity of overestimating intelligence
I did no such thing; keeping my mistakes out like a flag
when she left me to drown I only partly did
then and now
just as others have also taken their leave
it is a bloodied procession of grief
…
she would say it is evidence of
my UN-likability and a pattern is a sign
I’m the issue, I’m the cause, common denominator
does she think I don’t hear those thoughts?
especially from myself
though in truth and without the need
for shrinks to proclaim
I know it’s neither
but some kind of family recipe
repeating itself in clumsy tragedy
I tried to stop it
but some things were in place before I got there
…
lucky really for bad luck
I wanted a baby of my own
she lays now in formaldehyde
along with my womb
the scar shines in the sun when I
walk to the kitchen in my turquoise panties
I think then of you my darling
the contrast of death and life
your flawless skin against mine
mottled with shorter time and longer
suffering
we were like two cats
let out to search for cream
except I fell in love
even as the rule book dictated
haven’t you learned anything?
I was not born for loving
though love was all I sought
…
it is the whimsy of the neglected and unwanted
such a cliché, such a burning shame
to follow a trajectory set before you knew
this is the path for idiots, follow carefully until
you too, fulfill the prophecy of fools
…
I think too often still
of the past, though it will never
save me and only devour
any compunction for peace
I dream of her telling me, she hates me
it feels like petals upon my rotten cheeks
I see her dark eyes retreat and in sleep
reach for her, like somehow
all the scars can be healed, though
nothing I say will ever make her believe
the truth she insists, is a lie
…
in fact she says;
I am one giant lie
from my name to my ethnicity and birthright
and maybe she is telling the truth
for I have lost myself in make-believe
and catching butterflies
since very young retreating to
what I could pretend and not what was
real and crawling toward me
with the unwavering tenacity of
cruelty
…
if I could I’d rewrite the future
as I know what it portends
one or other of us shall die
the rest will grieve eternal in fractured silence
such as its always been
generation after generation
losing before truly lost
nothing repairs a pattern sewn
before you were born
…
and I, as I’ve told you
was not born for loving
though it consumes me still
especially when I am weak
which is often as
the sunlight will predispose me
to fantasy
thinking I see you reaching for me
taking all the pain back
returning your heart to where
as a child I placed it
high and gleaming
the greatest illusion of all
warding off my fear that
reality was
real
so
whitewash the sky my love
paint the steps
polish the lamps
this evening we will watch
the night flowers perfume
and bloom
unaided by
light