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 bottomless pit
Once you fall in
You can almost never get out

You claw at the walls of the deep 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

Getting out of bed is a feat some days
I just want to sleep some days
To get away. From the noise of the world

The guilt
The expectations
The intrusive memories of pain & blame that whisper loudly through my shame

The painstaking loudness is consuming and immense
It drains me of my lifeforce, my freeness, my subsistence

But I tread through the dark whirling water
I swim opposite the fierce tidal current, trying not to falter
If I let myself sink it will be too difficult to clear the heavy sandpapery water from my lungs

I see the light in brief gasps of red as I tread the voices in my head

Dysfunctional. Defective. Dead. like a battery
But I’m still Living. Operating. Performing.

Performing for most, a glimmer of a smile and a happy anecdote

But not all, not all of the Someones

I found the ones who breathe air into my tired lungs
The ones who offer me refuge on their lifeboats of truth
So that I may rest my weary body when I am too tired and it's too foggy

I heal, I recharge, I feel steady on their barge
Only then do I return to the waters
On my own
Maintaining
Building up
Becoming more resilient with each wave

it is no surprise
that it feels
so suffocating
with a mask held
this firmly in place

I can still taste the toothpaste,
my ears hold a dampness
from the flannel,
my pants give rise
to the airer’s freshness
and I’m yet to lose
the stiffness of my bed -

and yet
I remain hopeful of the day,
that it will weigh heavier,
grow mustier,
yield an aroma
I can relate to.