oxygen has stopped moving
a body is melting over a dream
that is alive and well
we intertwine like parasites
we love like decay
i could be convinced to move out of here
but every moon begs for this same
and I am no moon
start with a word
they don’t care which word you choose
as long as you begin
and, later, end
it’s just like a gunshot
these hot words in my head that force
blood to move
for once I am not tar
and the girl on the back of this page
she is certain
I will find a way
she sings it “goes on and on”
and it will
If I don’t stop it myself
because when your gaping petals expand
just to taste the blood of Christ
every velvet ant will find his way
to your core
because when you are born on the mouth of July
you are a sedative blue tongue
and they will come to extract
you from your veins
because your short life is meant to feed
caterpillars, it is impossible
to assume that you would be
collected in the fall
Posted in awakening, enlightenment, Poetry, spirituality |
Tagged abuse, being used, dark literature, dark poetry, Depression, enlightenment, Mental Health, passion flower, poetry |
In here, out there nobody sees. Pomegranate seeds shred through my teeth and we accept it. He smiles and of course it’s beautiful.
A blood moon grows 10,000 times what it was, in here. Out there, nobody knows.
I count, up to seven minutes in Heaven and wonder, in here.
Out there, nobody waits.
Everybody spits venom in the eyes of people they love.
I love him for the birds, he just doesn’t belong in here.
This desert is mine.
I sleep on cactus beds and wait….with time.
The sun is mine. I’ll keep it in a locket for those days that get dark, in here. Out there, nobody notices.
I smile. He smiles, and of course it’s beautiful.
Posted in Uncategorized |
Tagged Depression, hiding, isolation, loneliness, love, poetry, Relationships, sadness, secrets, withdrawal, writing |
talk about orchard red petals on wood tables
plate upon each other
soft eggs whispering to candle wax and I am
just buried in wallpaper
trapped in a past life
guessing on about oil in still life canvas
on a second thought my eyes shift
to roll back
and he slithers up toward my lips
because if he could he wouldn’t exist
yet here we begin
just two pieces of black ice
melting pastels into sunset
and if we could get it back together
from memory – where it is what it was –
we would pluck tiny pellets from
pomegranates in winter
without each other
Posted in Poetry |
Tagged bipolar, bipolar disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, experience, individuality, intimacy, journal, life, loneliness, love, Memories, Mental Health, mental illness, past, people, poetry, Relationships, social interaction, writing |
It will always be walking through tough cement, lemon rinds and jack-one swift sailor high on a Black Sea
drifting for eternity, fighting off starvation, making friends with an idea.
Love is not sold on silent blue moons or Ancient Greek mistresses riding them bareback
but deep inside a reflection, an abbreviated determination that divides calm nights.
I watch you pray for those hours. God isn’t listening;
He is creating.
Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized |
Tagged bipolar disorder, dark writing, Depression, Desire, emptiness, Faith, God, hollow, hope, loneliness, lost faith, love, Mercy, poetry, salvation, unjust, writing |