AP File Photo
A woman whom I do not know,
not even close,
took her life this morning.
It was in the news,
more grisly to the imagination,
than the simple passing,
the mortality of our
Word was immediate,
she hanged herself.
Listen to the words,
like a deep dark echo
on a hot summer night,
when we know,
something is wrong.
The thing about poetry is,
we write it as an expression,
sometimes we clear the air,
the toxic nature of our lives,
unfolds on paper,
the ink a spillage of prophecy,
still no cure for depression.
Just words again,
words on words upon words,
still no cure for depression
I tell my kids,
the ones that listen in the classroom,
use the phone, text,
use your mind to reach out,
despite the exhaustion,
yet there is that,
the fatigue piece,
whomever the motive
Have you met depression?
That dark place where every
misgiving one might possibly imagine
rears its ugly head,
it is incapacitating,
walls that do not exist,
screams that no one might ever hear,
they do hear them,
incriminating, defeating, hopeless,
some of the words,
in the mind of the act,
while the rope tightens,
the air suffocating the misery,
the life lost in a couple of
We lost a lot of people
in the pouring out of this ink,
there are more ahead,
tonight, last week, in a couple of days,
a few minutes from now,
there is someone will
forget they exist in a community,
find the door,
we are all welcome inside.
dedicated to the life of Kate Spade and all suicide victims past, present, future
Suicide Hotline 1-800-273-8255
(I’ve had my days, we all have, stick together please)
photo – Pinterest
When begins insurmountable
the waking anxiety,
a desire to burrow
rather than the music of the day.
We all seemingly rise to
so familiar, oddly routine,
Our lives caught up in the now,
my mother used to say,
he’s a now
person referring to life,
whenever my depression would fail me.
Inside the passing
a remarkable dream,
perhaps a positive
an outcome of smiles.
Inside the passing of a day,
so much magic
allows the human condition
to understand, to breathe, to live.
When I was a little boy,
leaving nose prints on the picture
in the rain, the streaks I’d follow
a free hand, fingertips,
tracing this world in some design.
When I was a little boy,
I’d watch the travelers
all of them pointed in some
a quiet neighborhood,
I’d often know the cars,
know they were watching me,
nose prints on a rainy day.
When I was just yesterday,
I wondered about time,
if it were ever really the same,
or if with practice,
would our lives intersect,
like the cars milling by,
would only speak,
if shouts were ever heard.
While I wonder quiet about time,
I watch and hope for every time
the rains fall the glass of windows still
remind me of my childhood, if I will.
I am affected by maybe one, perhaps two,
often it might be you,
the state of mind I carry through my day,
coordinates with how I feel, how I say,
and then the hours creep on by
until later in my own quiet solace,
I realize the two, maybe one,
maybe it is you,
I’m still reeling over trying to segue
into a world without the influence
of a demon,
of a skeleton,
of all that is built upon shame and addiction,
on the throes of our own sacrifice,
by the simple notion of hurting someone
based upon some silly luxury of
the notion of realizing just how human
our frailty in life,
has warranted some rediculous
attention upon the here and now,
even though just a second
just minutes before the letters even hit
the idea of a beautiful evening,
startlit with sweet mystique
seemed to matter more than any one
judgment created by the simple
anxiety of a singular
Easily we might understand the loss of time,
when we did hope there would be some remind
of a sweeter revenue
in the gifts of our humankind.
So often is it true when we wake
from a lesson learned,
an anxious melody of circumstance,
and gathering our senses seem surreal.
Walking along the avenue, we notice
a person lost inside their own reality,
yet to the onlooker,
for deep within we know not their serenity.
Cast a shadow upon this my truth,
while the world around me does
restore me some time to when in my youth,
I knew only love, only peace … in my youth.
A frozen state of mind,
stone-walled by fear.
When they speak of racing thoughts,
it seems fruitless
trying to slow down that progression,
instead the eyes close.
While the strength of depression
wreaks havoc upon vulnerability
the body waits,
an eventual light goes on.
Symptomatic to asking
reality to step aside,
while in the moment the struggle
remains the only …
So, we fight,
our bodies eventually
find a way
to step off the merry-go-round.
As simple as that might seem,
the revolution will never careen.