Hit the Wall

I wonder if I will make a profit,

if I cash in my dreams, aching

to dash it all to the ashes and leave,

like I could get out of life – alive.

I thrive, out of breath, never

scared of, but always scared to –

death.

 

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Stuff of Dreams

Is this the stuff of dreams?

fractured images of the past,

a mirror, absent glass,

the themes of movies

intermingled with the motives

of the mind’s attempt to interpret

the tenacious trivia

of a life lived in an unforgiving body.

The moving pictures of a memory

almost full, the impatience

and perseverance,

the clearance sale of one’s soul,

where the hole in my world

swallowed the hollowed mountain

of my ambition.

The kiss that left an abyss

in my sensibility,

bereft of destiny, the density

of the sea I cannot swim across,

holds me fast, holds me down,

holds me to the cost of caring,

holds me to the promise,

repairing small parts without recompense,

asked for or otherwise,

it holds me to the mother of all junkies,

allowing me to suckle the lies,

so I can tell myself: no surprise,

you can always fuck your knuckles.

 

Unspoken

The burden of mortality,

A reality for some,

the cumbersome curse,

diagnosed and treated

for a while, the false smile,

that doesn’t meet the eyes,

that glassy stare begins

to wipe the grins

from their faces.

The empty spaces and traces

of pain, waring

and taking its toll,

breaking and baring

down on the soul.

“Snap out of it.” They say,

A haunting expression,

such misconception pertaining

to this disease, depression.