Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass—
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
Rather it is the confusion of childhood
loping behind me, the chaos in the mind,
the failure chipping away at each success.
Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape
and so move forward, as someone in the woods
at night might hear the sound of approaching feet
and stop to listen; then, instead of silence
he hears some creature trying to be silent.
What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly
down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks;
the other ever closer, yet not really
hurrying or out of breath, teasing its ****.

-Stephen Dobyns

I missed him not in raindrops,
But in roaring tidal waves.
We were wild.

I missed him not in breezes,
But in dizzy hurricanes.
We were crazy.

I missed him not in a bouquet,
But in a maze of flower gardens.
We were lost.

I missed him not in a cloud,
But in the heavens above.
We were ethereal.

I missed him not in a rain puddle,
But in the lakes and seas.
We were deep.

I missed him not in the new world,
But in historical lands.
And up to this day, it's still the same,
We are classic.

your sadness is showing,
put it away.
no one wants to see
your depression today.

it's not time for that,
some might say,
its so unbecoming
to act that way.

your anxiety is showing,
tuck it in.
the world shows no interest
in what's under your skin.

take a deep breath,
that's where you begin,
or, that's what they say
with a pat and a grin.

your illness is showing,
keep it away.
no one is interested
in that anyway.

but by letting it fester,
and by letting it stay,
it might make me
disappear some day.