I woke up to this rainy April day.
Thought I'd hear the birds chirping, but all I hear is rain.
I try to roll out of bed, but I feel so drained.
Why oh why am I in so much pain.
My dogs barking at these men they are fixing our stove, but yet I still feel blank and kinda cold.
Today is just like any other day because of this dreary dark rain.
It keeps me in my depressive state.
When can I have a clean slate?
I'm laying on the couch not wanting to shower. The rain falls as time passes by the hour.
I make breakfast and decide to clean, but then something inside me stops me.
Could this rain not want me to break free? Could all this pain just be inside controlling me?
I'm losing my control of things I need something to change. But I can't do anything because of this lousy rain.
I finally get myself into the shower the rain pours and maybe just maybe will bring me May showers.
I do myself enjoy flowers, but as of now the rain falls and all my petals come off faster and faster by the hour.
While in the shower I feel the warmth cleanse me, but I do not feel all that clean.
The anxiety, depression and mood swings like to daunt me. Like a hopeless child everything seems to taunt me.
When when will I be fully happy?
This endless cycle like the rain in April you'd think would put one at ease. Oh unfortunately not for me.
Steadily I break and lose all my leaves like the giving tree.
But unlike the tree I have been given such grief. Will my chaotic mind ever set me free? Will it ever let me be me?
Will the depression disappear? Will this anxiety finally stop running through me like a tease? Fuck these god awful mood swings.
I need to find myself some inner peace. Maybe once the sun is near I'll light up, glow and cheer joyfully.
But will that actually make me satisfied and happy?
Will I get rid of the depression and anxiety? Will my mood swings tilt and shift or unravel inside of me? Will I ever be fulfilled and find happiness?
Will the pictures on the walls of my house look like art and less of a mess? These feelings have always found their way inside me controlling my stress.
Will these showers ever pass or when they eventually pass still have me feeling like this will always last?
I feel a breeze the rainy draft.
A gloomy April none the less.
When May comes will I still be feeling any of this?
But I guess for now as the rain falls down in April I wait for May to hopefully find myself again. Peaceful.
Tell my father (if you can find him)
that I, too, have died; tell him that I am dead, and
if I say, all paths have led to this place,
to this avenue where the olives grow,
let him know that I found some comfort there,
where the cherry spread its boughs and
lemons ripened in winter sun…
So, when that final day is done, beyond any
exact hour or minute, say, I stayed on and watched
as my old sol dipped, and that old moon rose
as yellow as that fruit’s faithless amrita. O bitter,
sour is the flavour of the mortal earth,
even as the red-kissed sky paints it not,
even as the slivered moon waits
and watches for its ghosts to disinter,
yet, from the winter’s cold no spectres stir:
they have no cure for that fatal cut,
no moment to revisit the drawing night.
But, I might not surrender, old man. If I may,
let me linger here beneath the opened arms
of heaven’s gate…
And wait… as shadows shudder beneath,
imitating forms that once stood here
in the glade where the sun still shone and would
not admit to anything other than a cycle:
as though returning was as natural
as this spinning orb.
While this whetted winter draws about, without
a warm hand to guide a laden pen, let me
begin and say again, ‘Tell my father that I am dead!’
Tell him, that I cut the lemon from the tree before
it was ripe, and I sucked hard on nectar tart until
I’d drained its heart, then spat its pithy skin upon
the road. Tell him, I walked the avenue and heard
the black fruit crack beneath my impatient tread.
Say, I made some notes along this way,
and I left them sheltered beneath the olives’ spread
where, if he has the time, he can read
perpend the thoughts that I was disinclined to speak.
The man who stands alone, Tall
Stalwart, proud inside the darkness
The shadows removing his sanity,
The trees whispering with the subtle wind,
Whispering of things unspeakable,
To the cities and the groveling humans,
The lone warrior,
who wanders the shadows,
Remembers few things,
Only the thrill of combat,
And the faith of his sword,
Running across the wasteland,
Cutting straight through the hazes,
Towards his final goal,
Even if that goal,
Must be reached by trading his sanity.
There is a longing for the infatuation of teenage years,
Of being able to look around the world and feel free,
Of having friends come easier than enemies.
Of being young and having time.
Now that man has aged,
Into a lone member of the workforce,
No longer a moon-faced innocent child.
Now a haggard and ragged face,
Staring past the present into a future,
He has worked away his whole life to possible have.
Yet, when he arrives there, He will be an ancient relic.
Of the child, he used to be.
Stories half written,
Lives never lived,
Love half loved,
In some cases not at all.
Places in life, never seen.
By the humans dreaming of far off places,
Locked in their bed.
Times never spent with people one loves.
Chances and opportunities faded away into the facade of time.
Things half finished, Peaceful things forgotten.
Life now a film burned onto our eyelids.
Happiness now out of reach.
The radiant blossoms of spring,
Bursting from the frozen stagnant soil.
The snow blocking the plant's freedom.
An icy barrier telling the sprout it should wait to grow,
Halting its inevitable growth.
What is the snow for man?
What is our barrier from springtime sunlight?
Is it the establishments we toil away at?
The haze of winter,
Seems to never end now,
In our modern world.
A garden from antiquity,
Filled with childlike dreams,
Memories of times of peace long past.
Flowers blooming in the summer sunlight.
Grandmothers garden akin to the fairies.
Handing the child a sense of tranquility,
From some mystic place.
The fairies garden,
A place where the green serenity grows,
And the clean water brooks babble,
Down through the forest floor,
Reaching a destination,
Hidden somewhere beyond the imagination.