The past, full of mistakes, false hopes, forgettable and unforgettable memories.
For the past is spoken in a language of its own for the past is a dialect understood by all, leading us to the present.
The present, a gift awaiting unwrapping as though everyday is Christmas morning.
Everyday is an experience becoming the past, leading to the future.
The future, forthcoming and unprecedented.
The future is the wrapped gifts of the present, something we cannot prepare for rather something we must play by ear.
For we are the future.
For we are to write the future, enjoy the present and learn from the past.
Depression. Oh depression.
Always there, never fading away, or going away in this case.
Coming at me like she's my first priority.
Staying in my life because I guess I like the company, the feeling like there's always a weight on my shoulders, always a reassurance that I'm definitely not going to be in the mood for anything besides sleep and sometimes not even that.
Depression is my side chick, not only because I need some difference in my brain, some pizazz to keep things spiced up, or spiced down, but because my brain needs some company while the main chick happiness is away.
My side chick goes away sometimes when the main is in town.
While happiness is with me I'm always scared because what if depression finds out and comes to win me with pure determination.
So I ditch happiness...
Depression gets total control over me and I can't seem to find hope of ditching her and finding someone like happiness again.
Depression finds the time to insert unwanted thoughts into my brain, talk to me like I'm some slave to it, I guess I am in a way.
She's inconsistent in her time with me,
I talk to happiness still to fill in the times when depression isn't there, it's not the same with her.
Sure we're close and spend time together, but happiness is never really there with me like she was prior to depression.
Depression is jealous that I spend time with happiness, but I can't help it.
Happiness will always have a place in my brain.
Unlike depression happiness has been there since the beginning.
Depression came along for the attention a couple years ago and now we're in a relationship that only goes one way.
Depression loves me, I definitely do not love depression.
I hang on to depression since she's all I have left...
Happiness is at the back of my mind constantly wanting to be set free from my thoughts.
I just can't let go,
Can't let go of the feeling happiness gave me, can't let go of the love she gave and still gives to me as a far off friend.
You see happiness found relationships in the people around me, she is constantly prominent in their lives, they never fail to give her attention, treat her like the priority in their lives.
I miss happiness, she was great...
Now I have the bitch called depression and she's not leaving anytime soon, so I sit with her, attempt to love her and fail miserably at doing so.
I try and tell her that I don't want her anymore but she keeps coming at me with kindness and affection.
So now I just sit with her and happiness is held in the back of my mind slowly fading away and depression is now my partial past my entire present and most likely to be future.
Sometimes people get trapped in the past;
most of us spend our time remembering
and reinventing memories
and distorting them
with our emotions and our convictions.
Sometimes people are trapped in the
like Nikola Tesla was;
"He was before his time," so they say.
The ideas and potential
not quite surrendered
to closed minds
and long established greed.
Ideas so "radical" that they often fail in
they often fail
to weasel their way in to the market
without making Corporate enemies
before they hit the ground running.
I found my home,
not my cage,
in the present.
My home is inspired by visions
of the past
and of the future;
past and future
failures and successes
and possibilities and potential.
I refuse to be one or the other,
after or before
I will be right on time,
although some of my ideas
span into the territory of
Those ideas inspire me
to challenge myself,
to find new ways - practical ways -
to use those ideas.
I am inspired.
I am creative.
I am manifesting my wildest
most aspirational dreams,
here and now
Bethany G. Blicq
It is HER
The one I love
You I lust
The one that knows me
You barely scratch the surface!
The one who owns my heart
You only fuck the body
You are a pillar
She is the foundation!
You are the present
She is the past
I love you
I will always love her more
My tears and sadness are not for you
It is only for her
She was - is - my soulmate and until I meet her in death
I shall only live
Not for you
All for her!
While asleep, even my dreams are not of you!
Her lips are crimson, her skin fair and smooth, her voice melodious and tempting
The Siren who visits me when I'm in the realm of Somnus
I pour all my tenderness into each kiss and touch, and though I kiss you longer and hold you tighter, it's an alien feeling
As if I am a ghost
It is her I see everywhere I go
It is her I only think about
It is her I only feel to love
However, she has long since passed this Earthly realm and though I'm committed to you and our children, she always haunts my heart
In my mind's eye, she is still here with me - alive
We have a life together - a family
Our children are happy and healthy
You found me at my lowest
At a time when I thought that I could never enjoy happiness - or life - ever again
And though we share a life together - a family complete with children
I will always be stuck in the past; it is where my heart truly lies and where my good memories are stored
If this is hell, I don't want to know what heaven is!
Are you glad my dear?
To be mad as a hatter?
I know the heart is hard to bind
so that it will not feel.
Come present your feelings,
at my feet again.
Place them at the gateway of the gleaming kingdom
Then wander freely through the shining streets.
For I have crafted this place,
And I have made it yours again.
The black and white hides
the color of their cheeks, their lives,
makes them feel as if they are more like
fixtures or ghosts –
mere symbols of an era, silently posed.
But look how the two walk together so close,
not as a ghosts, but as friends enjoying a beautiful day,
beneath unending blue sky and warm golden rays.
Enthusiastically they went to this great event,
eavesdropping on the crowd’s hearsay and news.
They laughed together, they gossiped, they schmoozed.
Their clothes at present were not antique.
They walked in style, impeccably neat,
in clean, leading fashion of the times.
They could feel their tweed trousers swish
against the firm flex of their thighs
with every movement of their casual stride.
Perhaps that day they felt sharp, dignified.
How true they now become.
They carried immense feelings inside
that swirled like magic beneath the fabric and skin.
Two friends connecting over everything that came to mind:
the worry, the hardships, the loves in life.
We will never know what united them,
what drove or inspired them,
but they were human:
complex and prone to mistakes,
the embodiment of epiphanies, joy, and pain,
with memories too often relived and retraced --
all shown in the deepening lines of the face.
How many times did they lock eyes that day?
Little boys grown into the dark suits of men,
strolling through the crowds and trying to blend
into the sea of this distinguished scene --
these upstanding men of society.
We will never know what lies between or within
the deep hearts of these old friends.
The photograph lives, but what became of them?
How did they end?
Not black and white,
but simply trapped within time.
They are past and present dichotomized.
Immortalized, yet unrepresented.
Now the men are projected to life once again.
They roam the streets lucidly within our heads.
We can almost call out to them,
touch, and become them.
We find ourselves suddenly standing among them.
For a moment we’ve forgotten that cunning illusion
that we’ve come to know as death.
I wonder how many lives you touched, before mine
How many heartbreaks you caused and how many you tried your best to mend
How many times you closed your eyes and wondered what the future would bring
Not knowing it would include me
What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.
What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long.
Just long enough for people to stop and live
the moment along.
If we could stop and tell the world the point of it all,
many eyes of disguise would laugh as they think they already know.
How could we forget and loose our point along the way,
And keep on walking breathlessly, as if the secret has never been told away.
We share our memories and our tears
We live in an irrational emotional fears.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long
just long enough to catch attention
in this fast living world.
Just long enough to remind you
that all you have is NOW.
No matter of the past
No matter day, or night
No matter if you're first, or last
No matter wrong, or right
No matter here or there
No matter good, or bad
No matter if you care
No matter glad, or sad
No matter where ya go
No matter how damn far
No matter what you know
Nowhere, but where you are