Having been referred to on multiple occasions as being “depressed”, I am offended. Every time. Having a chronically macabre state of mind and being drawn to a melancholy atmosphere and writing does not make one depressed. Or a psychopath. It does not mean a person is on a journey to being a serial killer or committing suicide. Some people, such as myself, just happen to find comfort in things deep and meaningful. While some comedy, joy, and love is to be revered and enjoyed more sparingly the sad, twisted, and horrid truths of the world can uphold a better sense of completion, joy, and love. This does not make one depressed or mentally ill but perhaps just more...... thoughtful.

A world beyond the dreams of mortals,
filled with passages and portals.
A magical place, of hope and grace.
The unreal is real, the real is unreal.
A constantly turning wheel.
A place I could only dream of,
the spreading wings of a dove.
The perfect place for all magic admirers,
a space where my dreams burn like fire.
But this such place, could it be true?
A place I know, I knew.
But this haven, it comes with a catch.
For it bears a key and a latch.
And now it can't even be found,
the wild vines that bind it can't be unbound.
Will I ever get to open the gate?
Could I discover it, before it's too late?
If I cannot my heart, my dreams, all will be shattered.
And people will laugh, like it doesn't even matter.

I wear the night like a blanket.
Do you find fault with this?
Can I not stay in the darkness?
Why do you judge me my comfort?

I wear the night like a blanket.
It covers me wholly.
Hides my insecurities.
Gives me confidence to be….
Me.

I wear the night like a blanket.
It calms the racing thoughts.
It shuts the thousand eyes.
It enables me to breathe….
And live.

I wear the night like a blanket.
It envelops me in warmth.
It allows me to speak aloud.
It helps me to hate a little….
Less.

I wear the night like a blanket.
And should the sun come out,
I hide under my covers.
Away from the thousand eyes.
A frightened child inside.

Can you hear a falling leaf?
As it twirls and dances in the wind
On its slow descent.
Turning, moving, swaying.
Does it sound like tinkling music?

The water that awaited the end of its crescendo
pushes out in perfect spherical ripples.
Underneath the bright orange leaf
That sings the end of its journey
Destination reached.
Sweet relief.

And now it floats
along the slowly moving river.
Can you hear the water moving?
It’s as clear as the ethereal beings
That haunt us through our lives.
Smooth rocks and pebbles underneath
Paint a canvas of perfect calmness.
Greys and browns and whites.

Branches from the trees that used
To hold that darling leaf lean over.
As if trying to touch fingertips to the river
To test the water’s temperature
So as not to make their child uncomfortable.

And as you look toward the distance
You can just barely make out
That sweet, wonderful leaf…
With its tinkling music…
Fall over the waterfall.

Can you hear the leaf now?

Hope.
Such a controversial word.
What does it mean?
Where does it come from?
How long does it last?
And what happens when it is lost?

Hope.
The word feels slimy on my tongue.
Like something terrible and forbidden.
Something taboo.
It feels unnatural.
I think it may **** me.

Hope.
Looking at it is like a dream.
It dances around like a fairy
In a flowing medieval dress.
A thing of pure beauty.
It is confusing.
I am not used to bright colors
Or musical sounds.

Hope.
Such a terrible being.
It lingers for a time
makes the brain tick a different way.
But ultimately it will falter.
Ultimately it will die.
Then my brain will crash back into the shadows,
And I will feel like a train has hit me.

Hopelessness.
Seems like such a terrible word.
But here I am comfortable.
Here I am home.
I curl up with it on a couch
In front of a glowing fire
On a bitter winter’s night.

Hopelessness.
How it comforts me.
It hugs me with all the familiarity
Of a lover.
It envelopes my brain so it can tick slowly
Toward the end of nothing.
And when it inevitably destroys me
At least it will be my own
This is hopelessness.
This is home.
This is the end.

Another day on the Wheel of Monotony
I have become restless
Listless
A shell of a former being.
Repetitive ******* crowding my endless mind.
I don’t know who I am
I don’t know WHAT I am.
I am no longer human
My thoughts boom and dance in my consciousness
Beating me down mercilessly.
Never ending
Why will they not cease their torture?!
I’m no longer subject to the horrors of emotions
or the beauty of emotions.
I am floating
Through the fog that surrounds
People unknowingly.
I see it.
I see it so clearly its sometimes hard to make anything out
Beyond it.
***** me with a needle and I bleed
But I don’t notice it.
Day after day goes by
But I don’t notice it.
What is there to look forward to but
Never-ending blackness
Bleakness.
Hopelessness consumes and devours
And I pray to No One that it would swallow me up.
End my numb agony.
I dream of the black lake.
Untying my laces
Removing my shoes and finally feeling….
The cold and bitter bite of winter water
On my toes.
Then my feet.
Onward until there is nothing left of me on the surface.
I would sink down to the bottom
My body would convulse
And if instinct should kick in and I long for air
I would tie the reeds around my ankles…
And breathe in the murky water deep.
Until my universe becomes as dark as my mind.
And the Wheel of Monotony finally
Lovingly…
And joyously….
Stops spinning.