In darkness we exist yet we dance.
We pray for light showers,
But our portion is torrential rain.
Unending consternation is our pain;
We fight for our plight,
But the years seem the same.
The fire within is lit,
But the vigor of the heart wanes.
In-between torment and loving sentiments
Chronic insomniacs sleep briefly;
Even on good days eyes are still weepy.
We cry from our souls,
But there is no one to hold.
Warmth is dreamed of,
But stark reality is cold;
Even the children weep with stories untold.
Oh dear heaven, comfort them
And let their wings unfold.
White doves fly against a clear blue background
And are a signal for hope.
We have been lost, as strong tides
Pull us further and further from the shore.
We wade in deep blue waters and dream
Of a place where we weep no more.
Tag: Mental Health
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With tears, the infliction of mortality was fiercely debated.
Memories of childhood joys appeared, but familiar faces were faded.
With a mixture of hysterical laughter, murmurs, and wailing,
The final act was finally abated with a crumpled note nearby,
With a name at the end stated. -
Discovering our true selves, we are the light that shines;
We are angels adorned in white with diamonds in our eyes.
A dream long sought and finally realized —
On that day we shall be transformed and beautifully reborn
Leaving behind forlorn, fear and the sorrowful years of many tears;
Embracing the shedding of our old shells, becoming butterflies
In the sunlight of the summertime, gently coming to rest
On broad leaves under shady trees, feeling the wind blow
Over and under our wings, listening to Blue Jays sing,
Dauntlessly displaying our gorgeous array of colors
And preparing to fly again. -
Still the sadness comes and the tears run,
But with every battle we learn to overcome;
We are tired but we will endure.
The threshold of our pain is extended
At that moment when we think we can’t take anymore.
Daily we go to war with our shields and swords;
The resolve in our eyes causes the earth to stir and the eagles to cry;
Our tears saturate the soil and our lament pierces the sky.
One day we will be transformed and dwell in light.
We are the stars that shine and beautify the night;
We are the sun in the foreground that gives the moon its light;
We are those subtly beautiful moments;
We are the feelings of euphoria felt;
We are a beautiful song that makes the heart melt;
In our dreams we walk through peaceful fields . . .
We are the fireflies at night that magically light up redwood trees.
We are the essence of the summertime, when sunshine
Highlights the vast array and the many beautiful patterns of butterflies;
We are eagles feeling heavenly winds under our wings
Soaring in the magical realm of vast skies;
We are walking diamonds formed from the pressure of our pain
And the fire in our eyes. -
Is there redemption to be found in suffering?
Is there nobility in enduring incessant pain?
Can darkened eyes see blue skies through constant rain?
Are we not mortals set in our ways?
Do we not dread the end of days?
Do we not work our fingers to the bone
And apply for loans with interest to be repaid?
In the totality of our lives as the ninety nine percent, are we not slaves?
Do we not have dreams that are unseen?
Do we not weep for ourselves in the four walls we dwell?
Are babies not born into a polluted world of living hell?
Do we not live on the edge risking our lives to feel alive?
Do we not indulge in vices to escape our own minds?
Do we not self medicate because conventional therapy offers no escape?
Have we not prayed and prayed to see nothing change?
Do we not try to hide our pain from the eyes of our children?
Is there a magical pill to a new beginning?
Are we condemned to a fiery lake for our constant sinning?
Do we not hold back tears when in the company of our unknowing peers?
Have we not battled and battled the torment of irrational fears?
When it is late and we remain awake, do we not contemplate our fate?
Do we sometimes not break from the heaviness of the weight?
Do we not constantly mentally write and rewrite our own eulogies?
In each other do we not find beauty?
Do we not remember first kisses in the sunshine of the summertime?
When I see her, do I not see an angel in my mind?
Through the storm will I fall in the field or will I survive?
Does the vengeance in my blood manifest in my son’s eyes?
In our listlessness do we still look to the skies?
In my plight am I misunderstood?
Do I hold back my love or give one hundred percent as I should?
In the loves I have lost, would I change the outcome if I could?
If I had the power would I resurrect my mother?
Do my weaknesses reflect the genetics of my father?
In my pursuance of success, should I even bother?
Is the world rife with decadence and are the years becoming stranger?
Have I become a recluse with unjustified anger?
From the beautiful sentiments I relayed, does she not remember?
In the affects of my childhood do I continue to suffer?
If it doesn’t kill you does it really make you stronger?
Can the moments of peace be made to last longer?
Can two or three small yellow pills cure chronic insomnia?
What qualities in particular make a good lover?
Did the chicken come before the egg, or is it the other?
Should I have stayed, or should I have left her?
Am I both a victim and a survivor?
Do I protect the appearance of vulnerability with a gruff exterior?
Do I approach the advent of adversity in a rational manner?
Are people with cogent minds better orators?
Is marriage better than being a perpetual lover?
Was it the allure of the exterior, or did I really love her?
Did I say something regrettable in my anger?
Are the questions pertinent? . . . I wonder. -
Incessant sorrow overtakes
With quiet tears the tormented contemplates
What on the other side awaits -
Empty shells stumble around in darkness
Searching for the substance of their former selves.
The hollowness of their souls ring out in endless echoes.
Like fallen leaves in autumn they go whither the wind blows.
As time passes they become walking carcasses
Who see and speak, and listlessly weep.
Under the openness of the ether, the feral children curiously peep.Lethargically they walk
and recite their mantra:We search for the light of resurrection in all directions
Hoping for our day of release and the stillness of peace.
We dwell in darkness and are tormented with emptiness.
The residue of substance is not enough to sustain us;
The hunger of our craving is not of the stomach, but of the soul.
Once young and beautiful faces are now withered and old.
With high hopes and sincere hearts we march, yet we fall apart.
The fulfillment of their purpose they constantly dream;
To be filled with healing waters of a peaceful stream.
Still, they roam;
Weather beaten ships on eternal seas without a home.
I will record their misery and write a poem
In hopes they find that sustaining substance that fills the soul.
In the millions they gather with stories untold;
Inside they seek warmth, for on the outside it’s cold. -
After the last weeping, when the spirit is no more,
And the cup of emotion has been poured out of the soul
As precious blood pools on the floor,
With ghostly eyes transfixed in dim light she sits,
Waiting for the darkness, listlessly rocking back and forth. -
In purgatory we are suspended.
Anguished screams are the byproduct
When the spirit is wilted.
Epitaphs are written and rewritten
With each changing season.
The anxious and depressed are listless;
There is no room for anything else.
Constant torment of the soul causes scarring.
She is beautiful on the outside,
But on in the inside she’s dying.
When the dead are gone they leave behind the living,
But the living are not living.
In the darkness cries are heard,
And the stark truth of finality is contemplated.
Day after day agony is compounded,
And there is no room to breathe;
We flood ourselves in the tears of heavy weeping,
But there is no reprieve.
With laborious breaths we make an existence;
The delicate shell of us craving a life of substance.
Once filled with life, we drag the carcass
Of yesteryear behind us, hoping for a resurrection,
Or some type of rejuvenation to bring life back into our eyes.
The preacher preaches a fiery sermon
And tells us to look to the skies,
But we have prayed and prayed again, and we are tired.
The world turns its face from the frightful imagery of our reality;
We are mannequins they dress up and pretend not to see;
Still, we are flowers in winter
Waiting for spring to bloom in all our glory.
In giant books of gold bound with the blood of our pain,
The gods, they record our lives, and write our story. -
I thought in your heart I had found a home.
In the the throes of my suffering and lament
I found that I was alone.
In the darkness of desolation I reached for you,
Yet still my portion was ridicule and isolation.
Against my will, my heart holds onto you and loves you still,
But like leaves in autumn day by day,
The memories of you, they fall away.
Intimate Compositions 