Into the purple smoke
she tossed her painful memories
wounds that oozed and refused to heal
stripping each scar from her body
and in turn destroying the scent
of lemon and honey
her mother’s blanket that kept her warm
on those harsh winter nights;
those bygone things and people
were no longer enough
a writer pours water
into his story;
he keeps his head above it
but drowns the reader
in his stead
Depression is not a get out of free card.
If you did hurtful, horrible actions,
you don’t get to wave that away
by saying you weren’t yourself
and then continuing life as if
nothing had happened after you recovered.
You don’t get to look back at something
and claim it wasn’t as bad as it seemed
without losing the people you hurt.
That type of denial is hypocritical.
the brightest light
burn most fiercely
but at what cost?
Joey was a poor architect. Aloneness made a cavern open up inside her heart. She had filled the abyss with people and distractions, but sometimes, the floor caved in and she found another undefinable emptiness. It was hard to get up, to make plans, when the foundation insisted on crumbling. It was why she avoided talking about herself, because so few could understand that struggle. Those who did had their own rotting floorboards, obstacles, and lifelines to tiptoe upon. The only possible conversation between them happened in the eyes.
Doom treads slowly
with a great resound
yet I, too weary
fail to avoid his path
like a pale wisp of smoke
invisible and unappreciated
A touch of melancholy
fades colors to gray
Although the sun is warm
and the smiles genuine
somehow all is tainted
before they reach
Like a late blossom
it shrivels before
unfurling its petals –
Past the season:
no fruit to be fruitful.
A collaborative poem between me and Benjamin from The Breakdown of Taboo. Benjamin was also another early writer I discovered on WordPress. He also posted the poem to his site so please visit for more of his thought-provoking poetry!
Regret is like a nightmare:
It grows in the darkness
While suffocating sleep
With its shadowy hands
Its creeping fingers cross
My bed’s threshold
And smothers me
With fatigue and heaviness
Dragging the best parts of me back into the past
But leaving the worst parts of me for the present
Is this feeling a sickness born of my heart?
Or a ghost haunting my memory?
Turning such thoughts in my head
Turning the covers as umbras twist
And I, myself, lost among the thorny bramble
I dare to whisper words aloud:
Always the same words
Always the same answer
so few understand
the illumination of a dash of color
when the whole world feels gray