If we're in our eighty's
And you thought of me
Relax and don't worry
Days have passed of me being weary

Now I'm floating, not in heaven
Nor purgatory and hell even
I'm one of the stars which the night livens
Smiling like when I was eleven.

A friend asked, “Where would you like to be buried when you die?”
While he looked to the ground
My eyes lingered upon the sky—
“The verdant grass makes me itch
While the bluest ocean is too deep...
The void meanwhile is quiet and without any life...
Isn't it perfect place to rest after I die?”
He laughed and said, ”That's crazy!”
And I thought:

You are the crazy
To live in this world of weary
And not escape, but instead be buried—
In my death I want to be free.

Depression is like a deep abyss
Once you fall in
You can almost never get out

You claw at the walls of the hole
Using all of your strength
To climb to the surface
The effort is grueling
But you have a spark of hope
That you're strong enough

But a stone falls from above
Catching you off guard
And you fall once again
Landing ******* the cold floor
Right back where you started

Your body is weak and exhausted
The attempt to save yourself
Is taking its toll
You lie on your back
Gazing up at the light
Coming from the entrance of the chasm
But you are too weary to try again
So you lay there
As your hope fades away

Run, run while you can;
while your toes can spring from the asphalt;
while time is on your side
and the wind is behind you,
and the world is a trail of blur.

The cartilage of your joints,
fresh and oleaginous,
pliable as your young mind,
can take you to your destiny;
can satiate wanderlust,
a bitter aftertaste for a time long gone
of a weary spirit
tenant to a rigid flesh.

Breathe
the scent of life in.
Let your lungs and air,
like lovers who have folded
the distance between them,
savor the embrace
throbbing in their minds at night.
Breathe the scent in,
in time,
they grow stale,
planted in water by the bedside
wilting with apologies
and well wishes
dancing to the music
of beeping machines.

Up the hills if you must;
through mist,
yielding not an inch
to questions
doubt pours on the road.
Against the unwillingness
of your body,
defy,
and when its defiance ripens
in its season,
your spirit shall burden
it a heavy swathe of obstinacy.
So run,
for the loan of time digs deep in the pocket to claim interest,
pay your heart in full,
before foreclosure.
Time inevitably demands its due.

—e.d. maramat | erwinism

time is passing by
at the rate it wants to go
in my head.
time now is stretching out,
as i take
two minutes
to do something
but it feels like
an hour
even now i feel like 3 minutes have passed
but i look at the clock
it’s still the same numbers
i stare at the same digits
over and over
engraved into my brain
but i blink
and they’re gone.
why has it been forty minutes?
i miss the days that i played
with people
and teased them
and laughed with them
but then i blink
i’m still in those days
but im missing something
i don’t even know what
i look to the future
i feel my future regret
maybe i’ve slipped up
in the future i’ll know
i don’t wish to know
but i don’t know