Category Archives: On Depression

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I worry sometimes

They’ll figure out what I’m doing — or, worse yet, that they already have, and now I’m a ticking time bomb of my own making, painstakingly created, impossible to defuse. What happens when I die? Everything I have ever loved … Continue reading

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Untitled

Death by a thousand papercuts, the careless finality of words where gestures would be far more appreciated, even if futile. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be thrown away so easily, unnoticed, without mattering? You’re a … Continue reading

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Servant

You who bore the tattoo, who bore the blood, who carried the mark, who carried the light. You who could not lay down because the quest was not yet finished. You who held the lightning; you who sang the void. … Continue reading

Posted in Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry | 3 Comments

3 Responses to Servant

  1. rienan says:

    I love the imagery. I also resonate with the rest now, more to come. <3

  2. Lovely, visceral quality.

    “You who ate of the bitter fruit,
    and knew it was good,
    and knew it was yours.”

    Put me in mind of one of my favorites by Stephen Crane:

    In the Desert

    In the desert
    I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
    Who, squatting upon the ground,
    Held his heart in his hands,
    And ate of it.
    I said, “Is it good, friend?”
    “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

    “But I like it
    “Because it is bitter,
    “And because it is my heart.”

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Even I think this is stupid

The pattern of a breakfix life is simple: Wait. Watch. Wait. Watch. Wait. See. Flinch. React. Panic. Flail – and in flailing, possibly hit the broken thing and render it useful again, or so un-useful as to be replaced. Lather. … Continue reading

Posted in On Depression, Poetry | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

1 Response to Even I think this is stupid

  1. StarNinja says:

    When all else fails… flail!

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White Noise

Rising sick a tide of anxious bees pollinating worry inside me like a field of roses surrounding the tower a buzzing reaching for the bottom of my tongue like it will not let me make words only a scream that’s … Continue reading

Posted in Fiction, On Depression, Poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

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