Of all the tasks ever done
waiting — is by far the hardest.
Ah! The hour’s pestilence
which on the mind does ware
Its slow —when examined—persecution
whose duration tests
the temptable nature of eager flesh!
Curse its prolonged propensity —
Its heavy drip, disciplined tick!
which taunts minutely
the watching soul.
Challenged is the character of those who abide patiently,
despite the influence of time’s maturity.
Uncomfortable is the price of enduring its uncertainty,
when knowledge of its necessity stretches moments into eternity.
Who is the brave man? that in its company waits and worries
not of his fate?
Yes, tell me of he who with hope waits and watches —
And is not also changed in the process.
At foundation’s head all things are
a curse at first — this uncertain tread
does blessing’s wing alight on the fragile
Tell me — does a moment sweeten
with knowledge of its fugitiveness?
Or sorrow soften in the ablution of fresh water?
Does not doubt prelude flashes of clarity?
Is not a song’s refrain more evoking
with alteration of notes?
In the recognition of its brevity?
And of taste — does a feast cease to be feast
with no understanding of famine?
If its courses are consistent?
Would we crave it still?
I ask you: is love worth receiving
when a guaranteed gift?
If it is not subject to caprice? — as it is aft to be.
Truly, is it comprehensible without
first shaking rejection’s hand?
Or pain worth abiding if not for its coming promise?
What is it that is worth gaining that cannot also be lost?
Surely, my heart leaps in beholding a sudden rainbow in the sky!
And my eyes gape in witnessing a leaf and its *******!
What —but that which is special— draws attention?
Such it is
both the aid and bane of life —
nothing lasts forever
not the treasured, nor the traumatic
all things are changeable —
that the only constant.
A plate of darkness
placed at my feet, I bend
and eat its hours —
and in return —empathy
the gift that has been given
pain, a teacher
in others I too can see.
#empathy #pain #mentalillness #anxiety #depression #gift
Someday it will be behind me —
and I will rise.
The branches of my body,
my arms and legs,
s t r e t c h e d across the earth reaching —
d c g
a n i n
on warm pavement.
quiet in body
connection in reflection
harmony in surface and mind
what is real? I cannot see, neither feel.
what I see, likewise feel —is not real?
back against the wall, cracked.
a chorus of blood
chants incessantly under skin
in the tunnels of my wrists
I am encased in this unsound flesh of sin, crawling
fingers of insanity
all I can do is destroy (myself)
the ritualistic obsession
the control seduction
compulsively constructing my own deconstruction
a dance —just enough to relive pain in living
sweating and dizzy in exhaustible effort I am, lost
in the hunt
to conquer my body like a continent
assimilation with a world where
all flesh is but wax and tactless camouflage
painted cheeks fall like petals
hair like wheat severs from heads
and bones rust like guns that drain away blood—
my brain collapses inwards.
I strive towards completion but in reaching it find
I am already dead.
Today I mothered grief
I sat with her in wait and welcome
did not deny the presence of her
rigid, raw— my arms held her
nurturing with my ears
a story —it felt familiar, was it
yesterday or decades ago?
of winter, its chilling stupor
and legs of marble trudging circles
veins, frost-bitten, nearly purple
no footprints next to or to follow
a cold so cutting it severs breathe
this vacant visage recollects —why?
but—trust— she urges
me walk towards and stand
bravely beneath sky’s ebb and flow
so I open hands
to fall of snow (what beauty?)
with it, too, the feelings
no matter big or small, fall
and in this storm —a calm
and in this calm —a knowing
as I look her in eye
with neither panic or parry
ice starts to thaw,
loss begins the heal—
Branching out a tree
releases leaves, leaves
behind its verdant sleeves
stands e x p o s e d
to brittle breeze
wonders at this, how
a tree is a tree with no leaves
for he believes all trees have leaves
and to be a tree that must be
and sees not that he is tree
when all his leaves leave, beneath
His crisis shelf
I sit naked on the ground
with strips of me around
and no sense of being self.
I try to love what I am not.