All this shouldered weight
keeps me on the ground.
I do find I come alive
When the aching thoughts enshroud.

My thoughts come wordless
and more in the form of imagery.
Floating moments of ideology
Engulfing down to the core of me.

I get lost when I let go of
that weight ache,
that cementing, sobering,
oddly comfortable state.

Maybe what I desire
is yet to be portrayed
in the limits of language
and thus ensues
a dramatic cranial display.

Envisioned arms splayed out to connect,
to coalesce,
But finger tips never touch.
Here lies another image of regress.

So I guess
I'll reinstate that woeful weight
to recreate
the fondly familiar leadened gait.

At this I am best.
Yes,
I believe I am self-made depressed.

The fair was this week
and to be frank I'm a wreck.

The idea of being merry
spins sickeningly in my head.

My throat tight from choking down
the blurry memories whirring about.
I'm worrying about looking merry.
Just go-round those thoughts you'll be fine.
"It just takes time".

But here's the thing;
when you go in a circle,
no matter how high, low, or fast,
you'll pass by that same spot;
the present quickly matching the past.

You're stuck in that same rotation
until someone else decides it's done.
Glued in an orbit otherly orchestrated,
the blind faith of all in the hands of one.

Spinning, turning
stomach churching,
Why can't I undo what's been done?
Why couldn't I be your only one?
Where am I when others are having fun?
Is this all for not or not for none?
I wish I could run.

But up here,
elevated inches closer to the sun,
I'm stuck
in an otherly orchestrated orbit.

To be fair,
I was ultimately let down,
me and my orchestrator once again on
fair ground.
Yet I fear
I'm still spinning, turning
thoughts and stomach churning
and, to be frank,
I'm still wrecked.

The dawn breaks
and the tumultuous night mends

Eyes peel awake
to neatly tend
to the days routine

Minutes pass
a full belly and future prospects take precedence of thought
as the first day hour ends

I take a look at the time
and the path often traveled
through the front door
Always foot forward
in pursuit of forever more

my dominant had turns counter-clockwise and opens
me up to see
that she
has stroked the sky's surface with her smooth bristles
pinks, yellows, blues

hues galore

I maintain gaze forward
toward
a potential passing moment
of oft overlooked wonder

and with this shifting point of view
her artistry adored

I think to myself

maybe
I will look back
no more

Fear affords a shallow life
of hesitant connection
and wearying wariness

Delusions in all
of our great minds
blind us

to these quiet moments
of great beauty
reading poetry

Whilst whipping
across time on a galaxy's
flung out arm

My laughs are now
at the top of my throat
Our situation
now being what chokes me

My moans have become
breathing exercises
to calm down
my tears
now pools of long-term fear
rather than
temporary turmoil

My hands
now pick up pens and put
pain to paper
tears to trees
rather than reaching to yours
in ease

now
let go of me please