Posted in Art, Poetry

Dreams and dreamers

What is it 
about time
that keeps you
from taking hold
the reigns of your mind?
The dark alleys
exposed in the changing
seasons forevermore
demanding you move along.
He stands


She loves the flow
of his words worn
around her neck, bent
from past love obligations
and surprisingly -he

Posted in Art, Memoir, Opinion, Poetry

Anyone listening?

Authoritative judgement.
She is going for the kill
him and herself
for betrayal and unerrorable
cries, innocence clinging
to madness.

(Me, 3/28/2016)

Consider the following Sylvia Plath quotes. None of these lines are in chronological order.

“Is there no way out of the mind?”

“I talk to God but the sky is empty.”

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”

Her words, ruminating choruses of distraction, hopelessness and hysterical madness. She was not always in such foul moods. Fantastical moments of joy, found in nature, lifted her to heights discovered, absent of anything but quietness.

“I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, ‘This is what it is to be happy.’”

“I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free.”

It is existing in either land that dangerously walks a snarling tightrope that snaps.

We must recognize extreme black and white phases of thought, desiring to find safety, grasping onto extremes.

How can we learn to see life neither all good nor all bad? Why is it impossible for some to blend stark opposites to create a balanced life of bitter and sweet?

“I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.”

A definition of depression. I have been there. Below a poem drawing from memory, reflecting a deep despair, holed up inside myself, deep in the belly of darkness.

I am not sick as attested to before
digging up incredulous error.

I cannot wake.
I do not wish for death
death prays for me.

(Me, 3/28/2016)

Some writers find infatuation with feelings. When we are high, there is an exhilaration incomparable. We can fly! When we are low, we cannot crawl. Emotions become muses. They express human existence otherwise glossed over by the day-to-day grind.

In a moment mistakes are made and in hours wiser choices can be noticed.

*I recognize unerrorable is not a word, but it works so well and it can be defined found free of shame and guiltless.