You hear about the sleepless nights
The crying, the suicidal thoughts.
The cloudy days when it's sunny
And the thunderstorms in the cool breeze

You hear about the support groups
The suicide hotlines, the public outcry.
#westandwith__, #alwayskeepfighing,
The sad poems and the sad playlists.

But you never hear about the reality

The way depression looms over your head,
Not as a cloud, but as a faceless mass
Of pure darkness, that paints a smile on your face
So people don't notice you're hurting

It's the feeling of complete and utter nothingness,
When you sit in class and stare at the teacher
But don't hear a thing he's saying because you're too sad, too upset to move or think.

It's the paranoia that you feel
When your friends leave you for a split second
That feels like minutes, then feels like hours.
It's the loneliness that sets in
While numbers and friends are within arm's reach.

It's the messy room, the scraps of chocolate wrappers on the floor.
The piles of laundry you haven't touched in weeks.
The homework you've been putting off because you were too ******* sad to do it
The pain on your lover's face when he realised he can't do anything
And the pain on yours when you hate seeing him in pain
And the cycle goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on

...

It's the constant apologising.

The constant self-hatred.

The self-medication with good things and movies but nothing seems to work.





I just want to be okay.

As a child
Down by the railway sidings
Hidden behind
We watch an ashen man  with a painted *****
The silver could feed us for a week
And she laughs as I cry
In the face of youths first love
The vibrating rail
Is an ode to the loveless love

they bring smiles
because there are no words
they fight off tears
because they want to remain strong
they write poems
of what a kind person he was
and they leave photos on a table
of him as a younger man
smiling at his wedding
his beloved holding his hand
as they reflect on their once in a lifetime day

I sat and took all this in
this funeral for a man I barely knew
but in the few moments we spent alone
on the porch at his home
just a few days before my daughter
would be married to his son
I found him to be a man
I would like to know better
a man of few words
his kind heart on display
in his quiet, gentle way
I'm sure I will see him soon enough
and we will continue our conversation
and smile
as we talk of our sons and our daughters

i.

the grey ghosts
water to the sky,
pond to the
breaking air,

the blues are
cloudy
islands and
stars, lily pad
gold-green
dream of monet-
light.

ii.

love drifts,
scurries over
the water like
a dragonfly,
her wings the light
flowing, melting
in its breathful
streams

falling
falling
in the delicate
colours of
spring with
its tide-like
ebb and flow.

iii.

i held you
close and you
were the
aching spring,
the bright
opals of the moon,

i held you close
and all i could see
where the blues of
the pond, the
snake-silver
stream of starlight
and flower,

you were the
aching bronzes
of the rivery
pools, the still
water's paradise
of blue and white.

iv.

capture me
in the cloudy
isles of
the bright
lilies,

i am the melting
light, the frail
bloom with its
zen-like peace,
church of quiet
air, hopeful stream
of ache and light.

v.

ghost-enamels
of impression,

silently, the sun
sinks and the golds
of spring blossom
like a spell.

Some nights I lie awake
dreaming of a woman
who could make me want
to want to live another day
another year or maybe
just an hour or two
until dawn wraps her warm
arms around me once again.

the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games

we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions

blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade

under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar

I waited for my son
In the airport today.
It was fun.
It was fun crafting
A poem on the run
As I checked faces and
Metaphors - one by one,
Asking them all: “Is a
Poem a loved one -
Like a son -
Or is it just a pun
'On that which is done'*?”

©LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, March 19, 2017