When a violent surge of paradoxical apathy
Finally withdraws in shame or exhaustion
As a villain thwarted or a lover spent
I would weep in this relief
If I only could
September 28, 2024
Hidden underground
There is nothing to be heard
But my blood coursing
Silent sunless place
In this dissociation
Brief liberation
(On sitting in my car in a silent dark garage.)
September 28, 2024
Waking with crisp autumn air filling my mouth
I find that peace and contentment
In the ordinary, the daily, the cycles of the earth
Elusive
Ephemeral
Perhaps it’ll be a day for pursuing the unordinary
With small hope
September 28, 2024
Tonight, my perceived self worth irrelevant.
Today I am both nothing and far too much.
Starless sky reflects
Empty void disconnection
Face dry in repose
Tides creeping to shore
Brief feelings in rare surges
Eyes will not obey
I write not on account of skill, as I am certainly lacking. Rather, I write because there is a deep need, vast and cluttered with dust clouds and a few faint stars and violent storms and ocean tides and evergreen forests and cycles of the moon and heartaches and hope for life and quiet pleas for death or sleep and a real person turned away, hidden, who I can never become.
The writing will continue until I’ve purged so much need, there’ll be no more words to be said, or my end has arrived — whichever comes first.
Surely, one day this well will run dry.
It prowls and paces on the periphery
Of the barrier I erected.
Growls are rumbling from its throat
as it flicks its barbed tail in irritation.
I face the monster in my cedar forest again, but something is different today…