A mix of everything from free form, to verses, to spoken word, to haiku touching on all topics from insomnia, to addiction, to borderline personality and mental health.
Outside the borders of this unquiet mind, sit eons of wisdom woven as invisible mesh most fine. Alone sits Arachnae, that fate wielding bug, completely immersed playing God string by string, thud by thud. We’d settle for reality if only for thinner air, know what’s happening, get right-sized and repaired. But truth hangs us all, the devoted or mellow. Chokes down in the craw, suffocating like an ungenerous fellow. So let’s sit side by side, have a novel discourse. Talk free will or destiny, while the galactic spider calls for a hearse.
Catatonic repose affect flat and bare thoughts locked in mid-battle weaving chaos enough to wear. Halcyon days under visions of winter sun so bright, sitting with view turned in reflecting fiercely in that light. Mindfulness resides focuses on action, body, and soul, a smile branches out as new knowledge chases out the cold.
Frustrated depression man in the hood sitting on wooden bridge near the beach on sunset. Concept of unemployed sadness depressed and human problems – yeah, what they said.
There’s a damp wetness that hangs inside
like some putrid pit you cannot shake.
It consumes and expands within you
always seeking to find new areas
ones that are filtered with love or confidence,
special and precious to defining who you are.
As the viscosity of the pit expands
you become enveloped in a melancholy,
a great creeping sadness that obliterates joy.
Dreams become suffocated,
ambitions become fantasies not to be attained,
emotions roll dead and to the beat of failure,
the internal monologue becomes a tirade,
life itself becomes a chore,
and one that is hardly worth the effort.
Enveloped in that wet darkness,
it takes great strength to continue on,
Each soldier who walks that path,
fights a monster inside and well beyond
anything that you can touch or taste,
Merry be the wounded ones who chose to fight,
their battle is so often invisible,
that others aren’t aware of the war being fought,
It is though,
one screaming resistance and determined action at a time,
Tactical with your hands the way you smooth my skin beneath fingers so cool. A promise held in your palm where it blends away pain into pressure and pleasure. Your touch sifts away the world, leaves me gasping in relief that we are not alone.
Wrap me in the mysteries of your dreams, oh, sweet one with your eyes of green, where the magic pools and smiles go to dip beneath that inner glow. Wash us deserving in the shadows of your pain where the struggle is real, no longer a game and all that once was becomes real again.
There is a whisper laying heavily across the hills outside our back window. It calls of frost and aching joints amid pale rains covering all the land in pure bone shades before the grime of cars and feet tracks humanity across that softest of faces.
Forever replete in an incomplete cycle washed to bare sticks and the legend of struggle through the flames of Summer which left vaunted few standing into the withering of Fall. Not in perpetuity do the giants stand, rather, they grovel to the wind and vanishing sun as it takes it’s yearly rest deep in the night.
Ground down over a mashing of ephemeral gears as children romped across their veins sucking desperate gulps of life through buried tendrils. Survival as a gasp to share their essence revealed finally as they die beneath the weight of Winter.
Meandering feet fall between the scent of wildflowers and moss, deeper into the mountain side this long trail winds. Water courses on a ceaseless tract towards the valley, runs furiously far below where the air is cooler and the sun rains its heat against the rapids.
Summer becomes the tone of fresh and old love mingled. Of exhilaration, fascination, inspiration, all put in skin sacks, given names. Each heat riddled day the sun bakes us, we are entwined in passionate reverie, where no mere words will penetrate the sanctum.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 