The painting I was working on is still not finished. Now working, I haven’t had time for anything else. And with the way things are looking to me, the way things feel now, I’d rather walk in front of a train than think about the position I’ve put myself in- knowing I can’t just not wake up to it anymore or wish it away. My last prescription has been filled and I have nothing keeping me from downing the whole bottle just for the hell of it. I can’t go back to my doctor and there is no one else to turn to, if that was even in me to do at this point.
Our kind has to be careful.
The wisps we are made of
Make us delicately rare
Though not the sort sweetly treasured
Or adored as the wink in the
Flutter of butterfly wings
We are less than those beautifully born.
Those who are meant to thrive and
To be mourned so dearly once they’ve died…
Our shades are thin – wafting weakly
And not to be given away,
Not to gleam recklessly beneath the brighter ray.
For us, their words are bandages lately placed
For what’s there are freshly healed young scabs on skin
Now torn open and removed
To an even deeper wound
Not only a flesh disturbance or
A spirit and soul just frost bitten cold
From a couple centuries of winter’s snow –
When placed without a place, no one can point you
To the sun.
In the last seconds between night’s sigh,
Through dreaming and the dawning of light
They won’t care how restlessly you’ve run.
How awake you’ve been yet not so nearly woken up
Far we’ve gone to end a beginning that
Has never begun
Here without a name leaves the most willing escape
Through common happenings,
We crave to lose the fight
So I guess there will just be a lot no one will ever see or know of. Drawings and pieces of writing and bits of music that will no longer exist the moment I don’t anymore. That way, it makes sense. Only mattering to me anyways…and who am I? Nobody.