A hoot for the fighters

People live with a horde of conditions that are life threatening like cancers
Several live with other equally life threatening conditions.
For instance, depression.
But of course this has been quoted to you several times.
Over papers and internet, in person, probably?
And maybe you respond with a solemn nod, acknowledging without understanding or mutter, contending the statement - probably calling the world a place of wussies who can't deal with their own emotions.

Or perhaps, you are one of us. And you have lived with the condition for long and bravely so - because you live. You are strong.
You are a survivor.
And this war is nothing like the others.
You're fighting for yourself
The enemies within.
The mind that implodes
constantly burdening you
about your un-worthiness
how the world would be a
Much Better
place without you.
Constantly twisting life situations to support that stance
So, kudos to you
for being brave,
for fighting
even if no one asked you to
You are brave
You are strong
And maybe, you dismiss these phrases
And your mind may have begun
~yet again~
its savage travails
digging a deeper cavity
and piling on you
The weight of stupidity
The mass of unworthiness
that you begin to label yourself
But for whatever time you
have spent,
glancing and skimming through these words,
I am glad, you have
You are strong
You are brave
Your are a survivor
You can do this
Again.

Uninclined

I am not inclined to emotions,
to expressions
the way you are
or I have lately become less inclined.
And while you may gush over
your outpoured ministerings
they don't mean much
they don't affect my existence
they may minisculely
brighten my day
Although at the same time
I may remain aloof
about your absence
but inside I'm breaking
inside, I'm not even aware
because these walls
that have clogged too much space
haven't let anything to be felt
so whatever you show I mirror
without conscience
without second thought
Inklings
Waves of emotions
are only cold distant words
So lie upon my shoulder
sweet stranger
for I may listen
but I don't feel.

Stable

Stable is just a word
A relatively perciptable word
With hundreds of inconspicuous meanings
With hundreds of perceptions we make
with a million possibilities
a few probabilities
and the mind oscillates
from memory to memory
jumping the pendulum
overwhelming you
unreasonably
Skipping chapters you would enjoy
selectively like a sly critic
hitting your blind spot
with a tong of hot white
jumping you until tears
spring like from the
fountain of youth
shuddering as you do
to your very core
Finally you fall
The trigger is no longer there
But this tremendous episode
It has you convulsing
and you lose what little grip
on reality you had
Stable
what is that?

Always

Like every mislead person
in this world
I thought you made me happy
Or maybe you really did
I still remember that pure squeal that seemed to erupt
in me
the kind that you get
when on gigantic, overwhelming rides
in amusement parks
No, nothing else could explain
that internal squeal
not the dried fries
not the hostile hum of air-conditioning
Just you
despite how your chair
angled away from me
despite how busy you were
sipping your cola
making small talk to our friends
to notice my elbows skirt towards you
despite how much
how many times
I tried to deny to myself
that it was always you
Always.

Dear Santa.

Dear Santa
I'm not going to ask you for much this year. I never did as a matter of fact. Because you're a non existant legend created to our train children to be "good" to leake extra cookies stolen  by naughty children to boost sales to kale red and white a siezable combination to make everyone believe in flying deers with antlers to make all that was scoffed at accepted.
Well everything is alright now.  All kids are wonderful well-behaved.  Go back to being a story now. Stop the cash flow.
Merry Christmas to you too.

You

It is so difficult
To not let what you are
affect me
To adulterate what you are
into every cell of my being
Till I have lost myself
my very essence
To the very
to every aspect
of you that I fell
So steadfastly
In love with.
 

Midnight

Have you ever let midnight get to you?
The darkness
The shilloutes
that your mind makes
imaginary creatures of?
and you're scared and panting
suddenly it was a dream?
Suddenly you want to choke
Suddenly you want to die
but the very idea of death
scares you
So we are back to the forgotten shilloutes
the unnerving darkness.

Pain is Beautiful

I think I like the idea of pain
And how once felt and overcome
there is a call for glory
And loops of this pain become a pattern
and just hurting myself
Is a twisted way of loving myself
Because pain is beautiful
And I need it in me to feel that way.

Memory Keeper

She chose to collect memories
And keep them within her for safe-keeping
She imagined all the thrill there would be
All the joy this would bring
Wheee she yelled inside
Glowing almost entirely at the prospect
So she begins, stacking them
One by one like the old
greeting cards that some
choose to sell-off to the paper-vendors
She holds on to them dearly
And so, at once, she chances upon a memory
And the joy that fills her
So completely. So enormously.
She is jumping.
And whispers - it's almost a squeal but no one seems to hear.
She tries again. Some lend their ear. Some don't.
So she tries. Again and Again and Again.
And she stands like a chaperon waiting for a ward to arrive outside
a bustling school gate.
No one seems to notice.
And those who do, shrug
shrug and walk away.
And she's trying to hold on to the memories
And she can't give them away.
It's all she can do.
Hold on to them
And act like it doesn't matter
That she doesn't care
Just as no one does
So she keeps them
Like little bottled jars of exquisite perfume
That seek to be shared
Their whispers, their smell
They yearn to be heard
To be listened to
But they lay there contained
And she no longer squeals
No more glowing cheeks
Just some memories
And she, their keeper.

Happy.

I don't seem to comprehend the insane joy of happiness.
Why must only happiness be glorified?
Why isn't pain, sorrow glorified as it must be?
Why must one run away?
Run away and Hide, like the little lollies and pleasure we seek - material, all of them- would last
And thus the joy turns into temptation.
Temptation to Addiction.
And you just can't seem to Let Go.
You think this gives you a high - an uplift to your sensory stimulae or is it just the numbness?
I can never tell.
But where is the joy? The happiness?
I thought joy was a heightened sensation. An internal state so complete, complex, so euphoric you cannot speak. Where everything seems beautiful, where you only want to see more beauty, where you only want the joy inside, out.
Where not the clichéd rosy, sigh, sigh, cotton candy strikes your heart.
But ultimate reality, what the world is strikes you and you are happy.
Not because you have something, gained something.
But because you are,
And you just are.
And that simple phrase makes you Happy.  

Happy?

So it's all a little rosy now.                                                                                                                      You're in your honey-combed bed of fawning over all things happening to you, of all people loving you.
And it's great.
It is just great
Like life has made sense 
And all the rippling sense of  clueless-ness and confusion has dissipated
Or has it just submerged? Submerged enough to be hidden.
Possibilities of its rise right around the corner
And suddenly this happiness seems like a drated phase. 
Meant to blow up joy. Meant to be-gone. Again.
One day.
I know I sound like I'm expecting tragedy to strike
Ready with my battle armor, unable to grasp the joy.
Live in the moment
that ridiculous one liner
But you know what's coming
You know this won't last forever.
Maybe it'll just make the jump.
A tad bit easier.

And the heart slipped out

I stroked the little thing called heart
It's pipes, valves fluttering
Blood and emotion
Pounding furiously
for the love of life,
for the need to stay alive,
What if it for a moment stops
sighs and stretches itself
yawns and relaxes
Will the blood begone?
Will there be no more life?
no more memories
of the begone days?
no perceptual reality?
no light in the darkness, perhaps?
And when the light flickers
the mortal remains burn succumbed to
The heart, its tired exhaustion
can reclaim no longer
the house it was housed in

the body whose light shined
through its repetitive pounding and stutter
And its life slips out too
For a purposeless existence
What is it worth, aye?

Lose. Control.

To live. To survive. To die.

To hear dark thoughts scream by.

Rag, dig into your soul

Plunging onto the happiest of memories

Leaving them foul,

Leaving them unkempt

Pounding over them

Thundering their weight

like the pink flossy memories

dreamy beautiful things

 

Never had existed.

The fight never stood a chance

And beneath the memories 

Crumble

And dark cinders are all that's left.

And the light is gone,

Out. And out.

All of it.

The candy floss?

The specs of a rainbow tint?

Nah.

They never were.

Never will be.

So give in,

Into the dark

The mystique

Dark, its tendrils sprout

Let it take you all in.

And, 

Lose control. . . 

Survive, maybe?

Maybe the pain will go
Maybe it will hurt no longer
but the memories - oh them memories
And the scars
Nay, they stay
They plunder, assault
Degrade, kill, hurt,
Break, pound into
The very self of you
Until there's pain
Than can't be taken
or numb till you can feel no more
Maybe the numbness is better
So as your heart shatters
and your mind is bleak
And your feelings bleed.
Just not knowing.
This may help
This may make it better
Just. A. Little.  Better.
So you don't have to know
What's happening
What's taken away
What pain, that wounds you
Beyond repair
Beyond fixation
Beyond any damn salvation
So let it pulse
The blood,
The crimson tag of death
Maybe it'll leave
Maybe the apparitions
Will chase you no longer
And maybe for once
You can breath
And not hurt
And maybe you can
Hold yourself steady
And your insides
Won't scream, won't crack
And you'll maybe
for a moment
Survive.