Tag: mental illness

When Time Suggests Pause


I was

all indicators explained a motive

a rocky shelf, crags of decay,

unstable to the touch, delightful

in its visual splendor.

This is a place

we all know,

a safe higher ground

where time begins with a pause,

a reflection in that pool of despair.

When all the moments come together,

a flash of indecision,

a step toward …

and suddenly played aloud,

their laughter bouncing off the cliffs,

they peeked around the corner

to see the man on the ledge,

whispered to each other

in wonder,

while watching him walk back into the wood,

leaving only silent imagery.

In Depression’s Grip

I wouldn’t say imagination,

instead, a spiral of twisting metal,

cracked concrete well below,

the shavings of slivers and dust where the legs go.

A night sky that looms in sunlight,

clouded thinking,

to the degree of a natural flight,

over here, this time, that afternoon, one year

in my life.

I sometimes want to cry,

cleanse the rings of deceit around my eyes,

then it’ll be okay.

Though that song plays out its course,

like a top 40

I tire of hoping for predictability

shed some light on

what the hell is the matter with me.

A rant,

is an opportunity,

if we can remove ourselves from


I remember the time I was told to stop boring people

with sad old cliches.

It worked,

I no longer use cliches.

I wonder about tomorrow

as fatigue melts away my desire to go away.

Where Time Lays Path

writer’s cafe


If a measure could suggest definition,

Would we cease succession of passion.

While all around humanity play travails

Might we all become a cutting prevails.


Search the world over for recompense

Only then discover all momentous tense

Realizations begin only again when slow

Mind unyielding decides somehow show.


When in childhood needn’t depend on time

Only marvels and wonder were made of thyme,

A recipe in growth in satisfaction newly gained

When all the others left and just he remained.


In writing, the paths we take are all we release,

In knowing, in hoping, in trial we find peace.

In Succession

How many times in a day

must I try to overcome

my mindful traces along the way

those doubtful winsome


notions capturing my way

I walk inside a foggy emotion

stuck in some simple sway

I want only to stop the commotion


If I listen to jazz on a Sunday night

could it be the muse I speak of

or does that same melody that might

give me peace, release a lovely dove.


I want to understand my pain

I do wish only to leave this place

the way I cry at night a refrain,

must somehow leave a sort of trace


I want the world I know inside the word

to wish for easier time with life

I would be grateful if beyond the absurd

I might experience less strife


I suppose it is foolish to imagine a release

freedom enough in spiritual term is peace


Six Hours and Time

I suppose I could suggest a time frame,

the time it takes to drive across the state of

mind, water, fuel, warmth, notion,

a sedentary reality

some might label an escape

yet step inside and recognize

the vacuum,

the loss of empathy,

the terror within our own desire to


I suppose I could stand up and walk away

in my head that seems right,

a solution, a purpose, a reason,

well, reasonable interpretation I suppose,

yet, we are all able to wonder,

I just myself wander rather then

decide upon a solution.

In the meantime I can watch the seconds

go by without effort to discover


I am sick,

yet by society, that entity determines purpose,

we all have a certain responsibility

so the time does not allow our unhealthy

reality to permeate the world around us.

Instead we cry,

we attempt some semblance of


we want to battle ahead and reduce our


Tomorrow I will walk through crowds of ignorance

non one realizing that if only I might, given the chance.

Wanting to Cry

I wonder sometimes,

how it is we find the passion,

the quiet release of a solid cry,

a rainstorm inside my mind,

the sort that when I imagine,

leaves no shelter beyond that

real tear.

I know that with the anxiety of a climb,

there is adrenaline,

a driving force that brings us quickly

to whatever height, plateau, however distant

our minds will allow ourselves beyond


I know that there is a place where I can stand


feel peace,


When I Cannot Breathe

There becomes a slight pang,

grows with each sense of desire

perhaps some might call it pain,

yet this speaker would suggest a small fire.

There becomes that need to understand,

yet the clock ticks its metered reality,

and the notion, the ideal, some aspect

of hope,

is filtered down again,

to a one-time solution that never satisfies.

We can sit here all day long and spout off about

success, recovery, decent appraisal of our lives today,

though the path seems clear, still we wander,

when turbulent seas settle in to the mind,

there must be some reaction, an outlet, a place

to land the angst we have so often gained control of

in the past.

Yet, I want to be here,

this present of serenity,

this presence is all I ask.

How might we figure out some way

to address the constancy of



inherent failure modeled around

a sometime human compassion.

Other time a stigma whose most powerful advocate

must be the man, the woman, child,

the benefactor of resource gone awry.

There it is then, that transference is well on its way.

Get thee to a session old man,

Get thee to a human factory of love.

Anxiety Rush

I think the day was rather sunny,

at least that I recall,

layered in my own shawl

a travesty of the fall of humanity.


Could we ever move in freedom

if when we blink an eye

there is the question why

should we attempt design a kingdom.


When while a spiritual guide exists

in the hearts and mind

of the many who remind,

when is it that faith insists.


Can you see my eye, the fear I contain,

might reveal my inside

persona I keep beside

me as safely tucked away I can maintain


Some dignity of form I revel in

walk the streets clean

knowing that my machine

has met the standard; a societal win


now a certain grayness overcomes

the temperate nature of mine

a loathsome place I do incline

to share with no one; beat the drums.


When while I wallow in self-pity in frame

here now why would you let me join the game.

Trying to Focus on Home

There’s this thing happening,

on the streets of my neighborhood,

there isn’t a name really,

just a lot of confusion.


Oh some like to call it

inalienable rights,

others refer to the

strength of the NRA.


Whatever the cool language

of the day,

what matters more

are the continued loss of life.


A bullet rips through the skin,

tears through organs,

with little regard for anything

in its way, simply horrific.


the steel blood of a callous

action, mending little ground

beyond ripping apart the soul

of anyone nearby – loved ones.


I’m unable to really speak

to the fear and pain and reality

of the world I live in today,

though not much different.


Years ago, we could call

an isolated incident just that,

where today, we cannot predict

what might occur in the evening.


What might happen tomorrow,

what if the movie theater,

perhaps the mall later on,

live on local news, film at eleven.


Then of course there are the students …

Shadowed Dreams


See there is this world,

many do not ever understand

or realize

a place of shadows,

shattered dreams that leaves shards

to be again, found aligned,


the energy to recreate such imagery,

often for some, unforeseeable –

impulse takes over,

leads the way down dark caverns

of illicit response to needs,

the waking is always the most difficult part.

The outsider,

well they can be sweet, endearing even,

offering hugs, solace, understanding,

though the victim or participant

whichever you wish to call the human being

on a given day,

internally might appear spastic to an

affectionate tone

wrapped around the utter chaos of their lives.

In shadowed dreams we protect ourselves.


*photo found on Pinterest