I like to let my poems speak for themselves, therefore I’m not particularly keen on prefacing them with any sort of context such as this. However, I feel it necessary to break that wall now so that I’m clear on one thing: I’m not depressed. If you’ve read within this space before, you’re aware that I enjoy writing about mental health–particularly my experiences with it. This is one such occasion. As always, thanks for reading:
A thought is lurking Inside me I'm aware of its Existence But I've chosen to Ignore it Not so much ignore As push it Beyond other thoughts Repressing Defending myself From its pain This is unhealthy I know this What else shall I do To forestall? Away, away please Go away Past the clouds into Deepest blue I'm certain we will Meet again Until then, away Away you.
What is eternity like?
What does one do forever?
Does one get bored?
Does one do the same thing daily?
Do days even exist anymore?
Do things begin or end?
What would happen to you?
What if you’re not there?
I’m not so sure about eternity.
I’m sure hoping you’re there.
My life in vintage colors Memories of simpler times Silver robots; red wagons Silly neighbors; street parades A life of unhinged laughter Amens before the altar Real Santa’s; make-believe friends Rabbit-like cars; in-car phones Within the Heights of Richmond On a Terrace named Highland Dreams wake; reality sleeps The imagined; magic reigns.
I wish I were a skylight; a lamp atop the tallest building in my city; I want to look out from my lookout; I want to be urban; not sub but above urban; apart from you yet a part of your experience; not a subject, but a mere object; individually insignificant, collectively brilliant; just like you, but not like you; I want you to notice me, but not see me; to light your way, while staying out of it; eradicate shadows, yet staying in mine; my facade, faceless; your afterthought, thinking about you; extroverted travel to you 299,792,458 meters per second, from the introverted refuge of my bulb.
Elderly man strolling alongside the street
Wearing your sweater in this oppressive heat
Where are you from; what do you think; while walking
Back and forth, to and fro, forever stalking
Where do you go when you’re not walking here
Do you live far from where I see you, or near
Peering down at the sidewalk, you plod along
No headphones, no music, to distract with song
Your purpose so mysteriously thoughtful
When our paths cross, I’m struck my you: beautiful.
Dreams are made.
Dream of night.
Dreams don’t end.
Thanks for reading.