A scar is a lost battle,
Clean skin is one won.
A battle does not lose the war,
But how can war ever be won
When you are fighting yourself?
For it as though
Your mind has declared war
Upon your happiness
And no matter of thinking
Can set it right.
Whenever there is a good moment
A minute,
An hour,
A day,
Even a week,
You always think,
"Maybe it is done now.
Perhaps I have won."
And then the moment ends,
The sadness come roaring back with
A Hail Mary pass and
All that happiness,
Joy,
And self-esteem
Built up in that time when all was well,
That comes crashing down upon the floor,
Shattered more easily than an iPhone screen
Upon the ground.
There is no victory,
There is no loss,
Only a slow, painful endurance
And the hope,
This sliver of radiant light that keeps us alive,
That one day,
Some day soon,
Life shall go back
To its happy place,
As it was before,
And the flowers shall be flowers,
Not roses devoid of their petals,
Only the thorns left to
Stick you skin.

A shared saliva,
Crossing twixt open lips,
Red and rosy as arms
Grab each other,
Bringing them closer,
Sharing and caring
In this intimate moment,
Nigh as close to a perfect moment
As our mortal existence
Can reach.

Upon the days twixt Rosh Ha-Shana
And Yom Kippur,
We are commanded to ask,
For our sins, forgiveness
From those to whom
We have committed them.
But when I think upon this,
Upon the year now passed,
Yea, I do find sins and many
But none so grievous and yet
Not too grievous that I cannot admit to them
Without great penalty
That I feel obliged to oblige tradition.
Rather what dwells upon me
Is less my sins
And more the opportunities
Passed by by me
And those which appeared but for a moment,
A flash in the pan of fate,
A horse,
Quickly Sprinted
Across the great green field
Of love,
The sun shining upon its back
And glorious mane
As it trampled past,
A fleeting moment
An eternal memory,
Leaving deep impressions
Upon the ground,
Ones that will not clear
For years, or maybe ever
Even as I try
To move past it
In at least some ways,
For I refuse to be
As lonely as I was
And Am.

There is no name for this,
So it was invented.
There is no true description of this,
Yet all seem to think they know it.

They do not.
They may never,
I hope they never,
For it is not something I wish
Upon even Trump.

For it is worse
Than the depths of sorrow
For upon the morrow
There lies no hope.

Nothing seems to change,
All is the same,
Even as the world whizzes by.

Eagerly you with the morrow
Yet plainly with your great sorrow
You know that it shall be
No better.

Upon occasion there shall be
A good day for thee
And when it happens
You shall not want
To go to sleep
For upon the morrow
Lies nought
But uncertainty.

Hide it, you will.
Do not doubt
For many, upon hearing it
Would simply run away,
Afraid
As if it were
Contagious.

Others shall treat you strange,
Full of pity,
Surrounding you
With a ball of soft but numb.

Numb is worse than pain
For numb surrounds your pain
And you body loses feel
As you die inside.

My depression
Is not
My defining characteristic.
Do not treat me
As if it were.
For to say
That my depression defines me
Would be to admit defeat
And I am not done fighting
Yet.

The where the when the time the how, embark
The hope the dream the wish the want the strong
The pyre, fire, blazing through the dark
The need, ignored past due by far too long.
Wherein we feel its missing presence, true
But lack of it can only make it more
For while this leaves me often feeling blue
This distance is no match for human soul.
The need of me to move on is all real
And yet I so desire to stay, all time
But she has moved on leaving me alone
I want to say “I love you,” sounds as mime
And yet, for all of this, I shall walk too
But never forget you, despite all love anew.