The madness, the darkness has come seeping in,
once again I am burdened with my sin,
The thoughts, they swirl in a crazed tempo,
beating against my skull with the desperate fury of a dying heart.

I am drowning under a tide of pensive dispair,
Struggling to even gasp for air,
Oh! I lament my own awareness,
my jealousy is reserved for the blind.

Surely, I must be mad!
How could I not be with such anguish I am clad,
One true question remains.
Will I fade, implode, or explode with such force as to devastate my own?

Run! My darkness is no longer a flame lazing,
but an inferno blazing,
We all have our afflictions, mine is thought.

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
Spiralling upwards, it dances
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Shine beams stopped short in the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

Mittened song sheets conduct
a huddle of duffle coats
and frosted boots, rooted in the snow.
Sweet carols leave notes hanging
in tranquil harmony.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

How selfless of us to call it sunset,


when the sun does not move.


How strange of us to call it riverbed,


*when rivers do not sleep.

You are not defined
by the pain in your stomach
or the tightness in your chest,
and your shaky hands
and the inability to breathe
are not signs of weakness,
although you have convinced
yourself differently.

Every masterpiece was once
a work in progress,
and there is more to you than
a disorder.

-k.w//An Open Letter to my Anxiety

You'll realize that sometimes
it's easier to deny the pain you feel
rather than trying to face it,

but I hope you find enough
strength within yourself
to conquer it anyways,
before it tries to conquer you.

-k.w//Conquer

It’s time for yet another session
To inform you about depression.
You may want to say “Just stop!”
Like a psychological traffic cop.
But as any of us who suffer say
“Pal, it just doesn’t work that way.”
This is not some social craze
And it certainly is not a phase.

It is something we suffer through
And you’re lucky if it isn’t you.
It’s worse than any story you read
To have a ***** fight in your head.
There are no praises you can sing.
Something is wrong with everything.
Even the sunniest day looks gray
And you can’t see it another way.

For many of us, it’s a long sad story,
And maybe cerebral instead of gory.
Something has made our life tough.
Maybe we were never good enough,
Or that was the way it all seemed
Before our dreams began to scream.
We can seldom remember back so far
To discover where lie the scars.

There are times when things go well,
But most times it’s a personal hell.
You can’t take joy in the normal things
That might make other’s heart sing.
You find that you have given up hope
You feel you are at the end of your rope.
Sadly, while you sit and pull your hair.
You see you have gotten used to despair.

I know some of you that don’t suffer
This illness want to help a brother
Or sister come beyond this trauma.
But you can’t label our pain as drama.
What you can do to lend a hand to us
Is to listen to us and not abandon us.
What often works is a true confessional
In the hands of a well-trained professional.

Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****

Snapped **** with teeth

Then grizzled grin at me and spit up

I poked at my chile relleno

Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs

Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque

Between my own fangs

I spit back scalding ****

Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"

Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see

Flashes his gleaming grill

I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle

Chattering ivories