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Tag: depression

Gray Days #4

Published on June 24, 2005

She’s waiting on the deputy, but he never comes;
got her finger on the trigger, sucking silent on her thumb;
and the ninety ninth caller has just been struck dumb:
like an old pair of stockings he just turned to run.

She’s waiting on the postman, but he’s just got advice;
got her hands on the counter, stirring tea in her spice;
and the TV show hostess is colder than ice:
like an old pair of shoes, she tries everything twice.

She’s waiting on the milkman, but he’s running late;
got her lips on the coffee cup, dripping stains on her plate;
and the radio spokesman has just sealed his fate:
like an old book of matches, he scratches the slate.

She’s waiting on the savior, but he never calls;
got her mind turned to worry, her eyes on the walls;
and the Jehovah’s Witness  sounds just like Lou Rawls:
like an old rusted needle, the pressure just falls.

She’s waiting on the preacher, but he’s been sent home;
got her hair in her fingers, pressing it to the phone;
and the roving reporter is standing alone:
like an old saint at twilight he’s trying to get stoned.

1997

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Me and My Shadow

Published on August 28, 2003

Inside me is a shadow
that waits for days like these:
when small things blossom into
catastrophes, its seems
to swallow up the sunshine,
and linger, like a fog
there on the steps beside me
as my feet slowly move
into this house, where love lives
and life is sweet and good.

It follows me in silence
and fills my mind with fears:
that I am not worth loving
and will just disappear.

And then, it bites in anger
at my protesting self,
sapping my strength and motive,
so I can barely think.

A dark, foreboding takes me
from this fair world of light,
and in its grasp I flounder.

No hand hold to be found
nor peaceful thought of beauty
there in that place of woe.

I lay no blame on others
for this, my wretched state —
it comes upon me, sometimes
and will not dissipate
until its passion passes,
and leaves me, sore and tired.

There is no rhyme or reason,
save I am uninspired.

And is this lack of sunshine
the fault of those I love?
No, it is just my shadow,
half of what I’m made of.

28 AUG 2003

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Post Apocalyptic Is An Oxymoron

Published on August 21, 2003

My world is not so grim and stark,
my sea so wrought with foam and rage,
that I must seek my guidance from
the words of seers, self-proclaimed,
who paint the times with bitter strokes
and cry “Woe!” at the fate of man
while solving nothing of themselves,
who see plots behind all locked doors.

For those who would dehumanize
just reinforce the status quo;
and merely etch initials
on the shackles we ignore.

It’s epater le bourgeoise?
That game has been long played
by far more clever hands than yours,
against far greater foes.

How simple – just reflect our flaws
and in a cockeyed Fiction, choose
the few that prove your primal cause;
for wolves use both the eye and nose
and courteously will not object
to your loud insult of their style.
They know your rebel stance, like theirs,
hides blood-stained claws and hungry smiles.

No nihilistic view survives
and dies a peaceful death;
it must at last devour itself
to keep its self-respect
and live up to its own reviews.
What’s on your plate tonight?

21 AUG 2003

aimed at Chuck Palahnuik

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