You left me broken hearted and in shock at the way you left, but for now we are parted and I will not let it get to me. Tonight I am going to drink and celebrate what I have left, perhaps a good red wine or something stronger if I feel daring. Until the morning light I will forget my sorrow for good cheer, I will not weep for the breaking of my heart because you have gone from here. So let the music play and let the drinks flow, I want mirth and not sorrow. I will not worry about what comes tonight, though I will cry tomorrow.

Can you really believe this?
Italian melons of steel got her kiss,
She latched on to the newsagent man,
Of Chinese culture, he was her fan,
They planned their weddings back to back,
Both bride and groom to wear basic black,
In multicultural Melbourne, anything's possible,
Buddhas as bombonieres, indeed quite probable,
Yes, melons of steel finally got her blip!
Can you really believe all this!!!!

i could try to write and speak French like Wallace Stevens did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and live in Camden like Walt Whitman did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and beat my wife like Charles Bukowski did, but it might not sound like me
i could try to write and drink like Ernest Hemingway did, but it might not sound like me
i could write like anyone but i have to write for me
i can only write the things i feel
or experienced first hand
and if my written words sound like someone else you know
it might be because they felt it too
and wrote it down
because they had to
because i have to

Anxiety is - conversations in my head that aren't real.

Depression is - feeling completely alone surrounded by people.

Anxiety is - being constantly exhausted and plagued by a knot in your thigh that gets tighter with each footstep.

Orsemas Caldwell
was a curious old man
who lived deep
within Elderwood forest.
Everyday he'd gather
branches and boughs
to cook his dinner
and warm himself
inside the drafty,
dusty cabin
he called his home.

I clearly remember
the night he invited
my wife and I over
for biscuits and tea.
We left our car
at the entrance
of the single-file
footpaths that led
into the darkened
shroud and stillness
of his forest.

We sat at an ancient
wooden table covered
with the inscriptions
of hundreds of writings
from decades past.
I remember his wrinkled
trembling hands as they
set down the tea
he had dried for us,
I believe it was chamomile
with a hint of lavender.

We talked about a great
many things, but nothing
made his eyes light up
like when he told us
about his wife, Percilla.
They were ministers
at the old baptist church
until they retired to their cabin
in Elderwood forest.
Young lovers again, they'd
lay under the trees and laugh.

He showed us her picture
and smiled remembering.
I could hear in his voice
the sweetness of their love
and a longing for reunion.
I don't remember much more
than his words that echoed
in my head as we drove
back to our modern day
amenities, holding
one another's hands:

'Don't let one thing
come between you.
You are one flesh,
you are not two.
Don't let children,
or money, ambition,
or your vocation
come between you
and the one God gave you.'
This is the memory of
Orsemas Caldwell.

The marriage of sunshine and seawater
turned to bristling diamonds is a form of communication , a plea from an alien nation , a call for a congregation* ...

Breathing isn't something that comes to me
With ease.

Breathing is difficult,
And I forget to do it often.

I'm so wrapped up
In awe,
In anxiety,
In wonder,
In despair,
That I forget that breathing
Keeps me here.

I have to force myself to breathe sometimes.

Because other times the air is too thin,
Or too thick,
And it chokes me.

I have a phobia of asphyxiation,
Which is pretty ironic
Seeing as something always
Takes my breath away.

It feels like my skin is crawling,
Though I know that's just the old medication
Seeping out of my pores.

It feels like the room is spinning,
But that's just me getting used to
It not being in my system,
Because the new medication hasn't kicked in yet.

I'm a mess,
I'm a wreck.

My emotions are splattered on the wall
Like red paint or rust colored blood stains.

I feel myself slipping
But it is a slow decline
From sanity.

I fall into the void,
But the void spits me back up.

And why shouldn't it?
I'm not done here,
No, not yet.