Category Archives: Depression

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.

 

Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.

 

She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.

 

Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.

 

You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.

 

Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,

together,

swaying under the stars.

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Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Memory’s Marrow

206, and yours were in the lower lumbar, I lie in the slumber of codependency, and when the nurse walks in on me, curled fetally near your rib cage, she assumes I’m your daughter, no use in bothering that it’s 4 a.m., as the old man in room 12b calls for more morphine. Without each other there’s the great depression, you’re the haploid cell in my gene expression, I’m like the repression of two faulty chromosomes along a y-axis, which really means nothing, except that I was the girl who risked death for you. You were the sweetness of tea where the drip of honey diffused viscously between warm thighs. Deeply is how I break in your arms, where they fused steel on epiphyseal lines. I ask God why I’m so easily fractured, and she says it must be love, love like warmth spilling out. They drew lines across your body, where the scalpel wrote poetry from your inability to keep normalcy. Faithfully we love, though the heart could mend or break us. Like natural selection, you ossified and died, as I went on to evolve beyond the collagenous glare of these scars. When the doctor sketched the image of your shattered spine, I thought of majestic butterflies lining the trunk of a tree, as the first harsh breeze of autumn tore them away from each other, and I felt some day, I’ll make my way back and pour my heart out in a cup and you will drink yourself sober, wake up without balding, without the wrinkles dissolving youth, pale skin in the morning, the sputum from toxic lungs, God knows I need a way out of this.

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Filed under Cancer, Coffee & Tea, creative, Death, Depression, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Photosynthesis

Dawn blood in, disfigures my soul. Bleeding light over shadow.
As blue as haze of eyes milky gaze.
Wolf prance, outstretched body, out held hand. Lick of jugular under white skin, baring of pearled sharpness, penetrating. Leopard lithe softly enters. Kaleidoscope on trees where glass fragments leaves, photosynthesis. Breathes in parenthesis. Green gem eyes. Velvet fingers. Locking hands downward in cave, concavity of loss, backwards in utero. Scream of displeasure where life enters.

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Filed under Death, Depression, Desire, Poem

Holocaust

You tie your laces and pull two faces,
one for the stage, one for social graces.
Your black shirt stained by a silver star,
symbolic of the vertical scar on your wrist, flickering in tandem with your pulse, a passing ideation, a vulgar fascination with love, a holocaust, a permafrost of blood coagulating like strangulating sunflowers in a field of hate. You awake again at 4:48, the world disintegrates, nothing stays in place, it all unravels like knotted lace around your jugular, dangling at the end of fascination, the end of circulation. You see a silver star and follow it, it floods the stage, blinding the audience in awe, there’s a long pause followed by a loud applause. You exit with no memory of the tragedy. A beautiful amnesia drowns you in silence, waves of violence wash over your face. The mask falls and shatters, cutting the crowd from view. If looks could kill, there would be a holocaust in my heart for you.

For Sarah.

I had a dream on July 28/15. I was riding in a bus with a strange girl. She had a dog with her. She told me a story of how the dog once bit her. As she recalled her experience  I stared down at her exposed skin, her chest and arms were covered in scars and needle marks. She told me she just let the dog go on biting her because she didn’t have the strength to stop it. I recently read the complete plays of Sarah Kane, which are very horrific, intense and annihilating, but also poetically brilliant and beautiful. There is a play she wrote called 4:48 Psychosis in which the female character spirals into a psychosis that inevitably results in her suicide. Sarah Kane titled the play based upon a time in her life when she was undergoing immense psychological agony. She kept awaking every morning at 4:48 am. Eventually she lost her battle with depression and hung herself in the King’s College Hospital with her shoe laces.
On the night of the dream I was sleeping with her book above my head. Afterwards I awoke and stared at the neon numbers on the clock, 4:48 glowed eerily through the darkness of my room. I shivered with dread and went back to sleep again. My girlfriend in Greece attended the memorial of
Λευτερηs Βογιατζηs , a remarkably sensitive theatre director who adapted her work for the stage in Athens. His memorial was held in the theatre, his coffin was set up on a stage that had sunflowers rising up from it as was written in Kane’s plays. I watched the service via an online newscast. My girlfriend and her mother looked so morose in the crowd. She told me she had a surreal  dream in which she was in a theatre and she saw Sarah Kane. She went to kiss her and Sarah put her hands in front of her to stop her and said “there’s no point , I can’t give you anything, I’m dead!” It’s so haunting  how these coincidences happen. I don’t believe they are anything less than synchronistic fate, a streaming of the psyche into waking life. The title of the poem was inspired by this dream and also by Sarah Kane’s play called Clean, which was written with the concept of love being like a holocaust.

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Filed under Cleansed, Crave, Depression, dreams, Poem, poetry, Suicide

Variations on Black

In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.

When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”

“A box of darkness, a gift.”

I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.

For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..

voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”

Fuck you black bastard, no!

I won’t join you.

I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.

A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing

Incongruity

Look at me, the armless statue, the gaping silence, the doom daughter. I called to leave a message, told you I was going away to a place where you couldn’t find me, and they called out my name in the streets, stared down into murky water under bridges. I lay hidden in a boat, a broken mess of unsailable hope. I was covered in my own poison, utterly soaked, and no one ever found me, until I awoke sober and ashamed. I walked barefoot through traffic towards my home, wolf breath, the bully blowing smoke, laughing me black like withered ash, dark resin, the scrape of a ghost over glass. I want to be the Woodswoman of daily syringes, walk detecting steel in my blood. You enter me endlessly, a stranger,  a lost mast, what the wind blew in, what the comets dropped. Starchild, black hole, cyclone. I unwill your fluid gaze from the body of ice, my mother, the antichrist. Screaming walls, screaming falls down tubes not meant to hold. The kicking, the kicking, the termination. I bleed it out of me 12, 20 and 6. It breaks even, no placenta, only this warm gush in the morning, in the moon tide, unwanted. My arms are my arms are…look what I hold, this is not yours, this is not mine, this will not keep,  a thousand emptied syringes, a highway leading out, high tide, low sun, afterglow of spent agony. In bed with a stranger again, father, the water, the sky, the hell fire, a triangle of incongruity.

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Filed under Addiction, Alcoholism, Borderline, Depression, Pain, Poem, poetry

The Effigy

In Tinos where you were baptized, they took the cap off the sky and light poured into the watchful eyes of a virgin dove. They bathed you in such pure water that Mary herself held a shell up for your christening, it cracked in the centre like porcelain and you smiled, that sharp smile of annihilation, hard and cold as the marble, where they laid your body.

As a child I wanted my own girl to hold, like the dolls my grandmother kept in the attic from her childhood years in England, pristine, dressed in cotton and wool, and buttoned up to perfection. She told me that one day they would all be mine if I could prove my love for only one .

I chose the most delicate doll, made of porcelain, with a lace dress and silk stockings , she had dark hair and green eyes, her mouth was painted blood red, and her skin was as white and fragile as egg shells. My own beautiful Κούκλα to hold when I felt lonely.

I placed her on a shelf in my room and stared admiringly at her countenance . One day a sadness incubated in her throat that was as colossal as a Trojan horse filled with a thousand warriors , it broke open and choked me into silence.

I felt the swell of it flood my room and sink down on my chest like a pile of rocks from a well where a man fell down and drowned. Every night he entered me like an avalanche until my heart cracked and love fled from me like a startled bird on a ledge, away from the view of everyone.

As I matured a hunger grew inside that threatened to shatter me. Her pale skin was stained with the markings of a monstrous molestation. Fingerprints from crimson tarnishings smeared over her body like stigmata. She methodically guided my hand down to the centre of the world and I was swallowed there inside of her until I too became as porcelain.

I lay next to her frail frame and entered a wolfishness that no tenderness could tame. She lay motionless as I caressed her and she fed me her despair until my teeth broke and my eyes fell on the floor. My left hand lay groping in the cellar, while my right hand held the edge of the balcony, parts of me lay scattered everywhere like broken shells.

The day of reckoning came and my grandmother smashed a gavel on my hand. The DNA strand of three generations unravelled from my wrist in a long purple tendril and crawled under the rocks, deep beneath a seabed of sunken dreams.

They carried my body like an effigy through the streets, burned candles in a cloud of smoke that shadowed my soul. I am destined to belong to none, a fallen messiah, a dark pariah, possessed by every girl I meet, love fills me with a fullness none can keep from shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Depression, Enslaved, Loss, Love, Narrative, Poem

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Jesus Christ of Urgent Care

Sky colossal in it’s charcoal depth,
mouth pitched black where they forced me to drink my salvation,
nurses at the station laugh at my situation,
another O.D for ward 3.
Neon sign over heaven reads; “closed.” 

Stripped down,
dressed in gown & gauze,
no fluffy clouds,
only a chalky film on my tongue,
distorting my words into something disgraceful,
distasteful.

I.V drip,
sanity slip,
curse of concavity weighing
down my soul,
mouth full of charcoal.

Heavy nod,
intercom
paging God,
white lights,
fluorescent glare,
Jesus Christ of urgent care.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Grief, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Suicide, Verse, writing

Wake me when the world is over

No one to lay next to me, put your hand on my side and tell me do you think I’m going to die? It feels abnormal, where I hurt, but the ultrasound showed nothing, still I worry over the non-pliableness near my ribcage, that foreigner I love trying to break free from the civil unrest in my chest. Maybe the reason it showed nothing is because the bird perches at the threshold, muted; no soundwaves, nothing to hear anymore but the dark murmur of this  undetectable song.Tell me do you think I’ll live this way always, afraid of what’s inside of me,? The blackness that pours out at night when there’s no one there to hold, no one to affirm normalcy or improve my chance of survival. You can’t migrate anywhere when a tumor swell weighs you down. It’s just about how many vials they need to make sure they are doing the job right in killing you. When it’s all said and done, there will be a giant arch over earth; M for Monsanto; 8 billion served. They won’t go out of business until all the bees are dead and the aliens take over, a world that oozes green radioactivity. Then the bird will sing for all to listen, but it will be too late. A world without honey is uninhabitable to humans. I lay here in bed with this malady in my head, and no one to kiss it better, not one sweet soul on earth out of the billions of lonely travelers, At least there’s always dreamland, wake me when the world is over. I don’t want to die alone.

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Filed under Anorexia, Bird, Cancer, Chaos, creative, Death, Depression, dreams, Environment, Genocide, Global Warming is a warning, Harper, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Love, Malady, Monsanto, Mortality, Narrative, Poem, poetry, Swan Song, writing

What if

Power lines and the thought that I could climb.

Your hands gesticulating, motioning me back into a feathery bed of passivity.

The pillars of the bridge engulfed by the engorged red, unattainable love I felt, swirling in violent cyclones of possibility. If I stand and watch the swirl of water, like a small child who perceived herself a screaming fish, spiraling down a drain, lifeless. If your mouth could kiss away the death that overshadowed my withering frame in the halls of a consensual prison, we called work, then nocturnal birds would have never watched my mother from the post facing east, and signalled the ominous, the premonitive , what if…

What if she slept and I was the night guard keeping watch over spirits? What if I stood on the boxes in the back room of the building and tempted my fate with a rope and a crate, tied around a beam, leading somewhere I had once been before this life? What if that exacto knife hadn’t opened my arm and caused such alarm among us? What if when she slept I found bottles of Captain Morgan’s and took the keys to one of the vans in the driveway, took a hose from the industrial vacuum and shoved it methodically, one end in the tailpipe, the other in my mouth, with the doors locked and the radio playing what were meant to be the last songs I heard as I stared up at the starlit sky drinking 21 shots for every year I was alive.

What if all of this and still you took me home and held me by your side until that storm subsided? You laughed and chided my attempts at life and death until I had given all I could of blood and sex to you, and it left me in stitches.

Then a girl turned into a woman and kept walking, unconvinced by your feigned displays of love & mercy. A girl who was nothing more than a serotonin depraved burden to your artificial, feel good, polyana ways.

Climbing power lines, shirking the electricity, jumping twenty feet into nothing for you. It never ceased to  amuse, you wanted something more substantial, like semen and the demon of a vacuous tube, sucking unborn dreams away.

But what if your fingers were razorblades and your lips were a red abyss and every kiss you gave cut into me with the thirst for something deeper?

Things at which you smirked and slithered away, cowering. With the “oh Gods and what nows” when I played Anathema or Theatre of Tragedy, and you walked out of my apartment unable to bear it.

You were the amusement whose pleasure wore out on me. When you could not abide my pain or sustain my darkness.

I surged on alone deeper and deeper, further and further away from you, towards a city where a tenebrous girl flicked her blond hair and noted the sadness behind my smile, able to see more deep, able to keep shadows.

Remember when I told you I was lost? You said you would send a taxi to find me, but you fell over and nearly dropped the phone when I told you I was across the country, where I’d gone on a whim to reclaim something that never belonged to me. So she didn’t and you don’t and what does, belong to me? The names of constellations, the origin of beauty?

Or just this…what if?

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Filed under Bleed, Chaos, Control, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fish, Freedom, Loss, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, writing

Silence the Happy Crowd

(The perfect way to interrupt an alfresco dinner party at night)

There is a happy crowd seated around a table, go to each person one by one as you dance in a clockwise motion and smash their smiling faces , then take subterfuge in their pain. Suspended in silence, the previously uproarious crowd sits stunned at the table, lacking all appetite for life. This is truth. This is what people need to be awakened. If I am in amongst the laughing faces of the careless crowd, if in that gathering you catch me looking happy, then smash me too. Take your delicate hand of grace and smash it against my face. I will neither laugh nor cry. Turn down the lights, so that only the candles flicker, because shadows love fire, like moths drawn to flames. Then stand behind a screen and show them your shadow dance. Show them how you struggle to be free of yourself, because depression can feel like being locked in one’s own shadow, unable to escape into the light. And when one does escape, the light blinds them, like being burned by falsity, because the truth is not there, there are only lies & disguises to cover the shadow. You are the shadow, I am the shadow we are all shadows that get burned up by the light. Once they have understood, then emerge & appear to them unveiled, smile a bright smile, then walk away, without ever having spoken a word.

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Filed under Dance, Depression, Poem, Shadow, Silence