You believe in control
Like you believe God
Put Man here to make things
Better.
And that's cute.

You are a limit left wanting
For letdown;
A bandaid in desperate hold-fast
To a punctured hull, with fever
Dreams of Flotsom and Jetsom.

At times, your flotsom and jetsom gets to me.
Mostly, I think you're beautiful.

At times, I look at you and want to ask,
"Why are you in a frantic, frothing frenzy?"

At times, I exclaim, "Really? Come on! I mean, come on! How bad is it, really?"...

At times, you storm away.

At times, I wonder if you are worth the aggrivation.

At times, I don't think I deserve you.

I'm a divided island.
Cleaved by a a wide sea.
My two halves communicate by note in bottles...
But the currents are inauspicious,
No word arrives from either shore,
Nonetheless the split isles persist,
"Legs, good morning,
Let's get out of bed."
"Head, we've got to **** and **** down here,
Direct us to a toilet and be quick."
Thus said,
More unread flotsom
Is added to this tangled gyre.

I descended slowly so long ago.
The memory of how
and why it began floated
away with the flotsom on
the warm surface currents.

On the frigid sea floor of my mind
crushed beneath the pressure
of liquid self loathing.
A kingdom of cold piercing
darkness was my domain
and there I stayed.

"Please, come back."
Her words echoed in the depth.
And it began.

A slow ascension passed the
darkened depth through murky grey.
The grasping demons that preyed
on my spirit lost their hold as I rose
beyond their reach.

Faster I climbed.
My soul expanded with every passing meter.
Pushing away all that held me down
and breached the warm wavy surface
where it all began.

Golden rays and azure blue skies
fill my sight as I float with the current.
Miles from shore with hope as my
only compass.

The journey to my redemption now begins
with you as my guide.

~~~


KCsPoetryContest  depression  recovery

words sing a song
a sonnet in my brain
yet my pentameter
is not iambic
more of a wild refrain

as they tumble jumble
bump and grind
it is difficult to
give them their
proper place in line

they all knock and clamor
to be the first in line
ain't but  one of them
that wish to be left behind

so no precise flow, no couplets
not a lot rhyme....even less rhythm
in my writ.....this time

sometimes i can plant
my words in neat little rows
water and **** them til poetry grows
sometimes i put a big seed of thought
suspended over a water glass and
wait til it grows roots
in it's search for love
and meaning

sometimes i just scatter
thoughts to the wind
leave them lie where they fall
and go off and begin other tasks
forgetting  those seeds
til come one day, when
i take a wrong turn
and walk that way
to find a field of riotous colour,
flowers upon flowers
no need for the distinction
of pretty over ****

today i write a torrent a river
that floods with flotsom, jetsom
and other.....
and as these words rush
to the sea, they cry
glory allelui....
i am free....i am free