Posts Tagged ‘Depression’

What is dark poetry?
It’s art from the other side of life,
The undercroft,
It is the pens true misgivings with the world,
Poetry without the veneer of hope,
Without naivete,

It’s verse unconcerned with the daisies,
Or the wonders global,
It’s poetry with the mask off,
Of black eyes and cracked teeth,
Of track marks and hangovers,
Grief and crime and the reapers art,

Don’t misconstrue my words though,
Flowery prose has its place,
Ink of faith and family,
Denial helps with the pain after all,
But all ideals require an obverse,
And that’s poetry from the dark.

Even in your loneliest nights,
When the silence screeches in your ears,
The sky can deliver you love,
In the form of a cerulean comet,

An evanescent light in the sky,
Streaking across your eyes like a pleasing form,
The shape of a paramour,
Painted in azure trails,

This falling star,
It burns white-hot,
Like the throes of frenetic passion,
It conjures images of trysts and new families,

But comets are only brief interlopers,
And if you don’t grab it,
Pluck it from the universe,
It’ll pass by at light speed,

And proceed to the orbit of another.

I’m somewhat mercurial,
A revenant of flesh,
I drift about as if on a breeze,
Missed calls and messages on read,
I’m a periphery person,
Never in true focus,
Ever on the outside,
I’ll be a stranger to a friend one moment,
And a friend to a stranger the next,

My whims deviate on a dime,
I’m not duplicitous,
Not double-dealing,
No ill will do I intend,
My mood and soul are just pulled all over,
Dragged as if by shifting tides,
To each cardinal direction,
Wishing for solitude in one breath,
And longing for companionship the next.

While walking these stone alleyways,
Those blank faces drifting by,
They’re all fighting demons you can’t see,
Beasts the likes of which you’d never imagine,
Shadow critters,
Ghouls and wraiths,
Dragging them down like gravity,
Clawed appendages slumped over shoulders,
A spiteful piggyback,
Suffering may lead some to appear surly,
Cruel even,
The world eats away at us all,
You too have your demons,
So don’t judge,

Together we’re winning the war.

These scars left upon me,
Each papercut from a photograph,
Each tear drawn from a fond anecdote,
Or the sting of a familiar song,
They’re biting heirlooms of a time long gone,
A man long dead,
And the wraith who loved him,

As the events of those golden days fade,
As the flower petals moulder,
And tender gifts are consigned to the loft,
I’m left with the immaterial pangs,
The true souvenir of a heartbreak,
Physical knick-knacks have their sway,
But the upset is the real memento.

Looking back at my scribblings,
I weep tender tears,
The ink vents at me,
It chastises me,
Denouncing my attempts at artistry,

I’m a sham,
I’m farcical,
A fake,
Trying at a craft that mocks my toils,
Playing at aptitude,

I can’t argue,
The ink preaches to my choir,
The writing only reflects my own thoughts,
In all of my inadequacy,
My words prove vacuous and dry,

The ink speaks with my voice,
Knowing I’m bound for inconsequence,
Only a charlatan,
Yes indeed,
But one that shall keep trying.

I find,
When attempting to pilot this stardust skeleton,
For this game of life,
I keep falling at the first hurdle,
Tripping over my tongue,
Barely getting going,

I’m not equipped for this race,
Scruffy sneakers and squalid prospects,
Social mores handicap,
Always a step behind,
And as I approach that first obstacle,
I foresee another tumble into obscurity,

I’m not competition,
Because I can’t compete,
Barely rising to any challenge,
Sprinting half-heartedly,
And falling flat on my face,
Every time.

The other night,
I made a scrapbook from the pieces of us,
Memories put on to parchment,
Crumpled photos and lingering gazes,
Tufts of hair and smiles around campfires,
Receipts and candlelit dinners,
It’s all that remains of us,
Existing only in paper and glue,

This scrapbook,
It has grown to be a cat o’ nine tails,
Papercuts and stinging eyes,
It hurts parts of me immaterial,
Every fibre of my being,
Yet the memories on those pages,
They’re the reason I don’t give in,
And throw it into the fire.

They ask me why I sleep so much,
Do they not know?
Have they not seen the world?
The throes of its descent?

The night is an escape,
Sleep is a shroud,
An aegis of unconsciousness,
It protects the spirit in its nocturnal embrace,

As I snore,
The horrors of the world don’t exist,
The gripes of phantoms are inaudible,
And the stink of blight does not stir me,

Am I slothful?
Yet I don’t sleep for fatigue,
It’s not so plain as that,

I sleep to not be awake.

As I sip this lukewarm cider,
I’d rather be high on fantasy,
I long for it,
To elope to another world,
A land of swords and escapist sorcery,

I’d change class for sure,
I could be a magus,
A shifty rogue or a spellsword,
Away on my own hero’s journey,
Against this dark lord or that giant,

I could be a questing knight,
The likes of Lancelot and Galahad,
Saving innocents and putting villains to the blade,
A symbol of gallantry in silver plate,
Foil to the me in this mundane world,

In that land of magic and marvels,
I’d rather brave dragons and liches,
And abscond from me,
Anything to escape this purgatory,
This grey world,

This unremarkable me.