Beginning like every other day,
my eyes open reluctantly.

Dragging myself out of bed,
it is time to face the silence.

Another day to manage,
still attempting to survive.

Wondering why it is,
that I get out of bed at all.

Those who are not a victim,
to the tight hold of depression,
cannot fathom the meaning,
beyond the syllables.

Even the truest descriptions,
cannot paint the picture,
in it's entirety.

To say, I feel empty;
could never explain enough.

To cry, bearing pain;
could never release enough.

To scream, with frustration;
could never show enough.

We smile, in hope that it helps,
to not bring those down around us.

As we breakdown repeatedly,
we are always lost within.

A burden; is an understatement.

Depression is like a cancer,
embedded deep into your cells,
draining the life from you,
with little hope for the end.

For no reason, other than love,
do I face the day and try again.

If I did not love those in my life,
I would not get up to be there.

Still, I try my absolute best,
to do what I can for others,
knowing there is nothing,
they can do to help me.

Most times,
I live on the pause;



the lingering,
between what you say,
                    and what I hear.
The livid moment of incessant
existence when I take from life,
the meaning within moments.
The weight of a second, drawn
like blood,
from the bare atmosphere.

The desert gradually turned to a grassy thicket
tamarack branches turn towards the fleeting dusk
above, ancient starlights fade in cimmerian skies
their ghostly glow choked by the sullen silhouettes
of churning charcoal clouds against the abyss.
The world feels as though she is being devoured
by nothing and emptiness.

Again the tortured-self awakes inside of Apricus
wrestling with its bindings merely out of gall.
It elicits ache in the belly of its captor,
the kind that only heartbreak makes inside us all
and once the tantrum cease,
it laugh a little before it speak

The darkness comes, not for you and I alone
but in the end all life is its sacrifice,
why struggle any longer to change the minds of sheep?
Has the battle not hardened our flesh, sharpened our teeth,
has it not made us hungry for what lesser men eat?

A thunderhead above him began to coil
tightening its hold around the moon,
each rotation siphoned the lunar light
till the well traveled soil of the trail
turn to a thin brush, then into a heavy wood.

Ask not if you shall stray from your path
rather ask if you will have the constitution
to find your way back in the black
of a stormy night.

When I die,
I do not want vacuous truths at my written eulogy.
I do not want people hear lies about me.

“She was beautiful.”
I am not. I was not.
Beautiful people knew how to dress.
They do not act like an awkward mess.

“She was strong and brave.”
I am not. I was not.
Strong and brave people do not cry themselves to sleep.
They do not consider themselves as a heap

“She was smart.”
I am not. I was not.
Smart people are not afraid of choices they make.
They are confident about the risks they take.

Before I die,*
I want you to know that I am dull, anxious and dumb.
I am broken and small like a piece of crumb.

petals of the wind,
like lilies unfolding
in the water.