There’s a quiet heart upon the wall
that breaks the day in equal parts,
blind to the heavy tears that fall,
and careless of our weary hearts.
It treats a life like one quick breath,
counting the hours, cold and gray—
a gear that grinds away our breath,
where every second slips away.
And yet... time bends when passion burns,
and minutes stretch to touch the sky;
a single look, where longing turns,
can make a decade pass us by.
For all those weeks spent on routine
fade out like smoke in morning air,
while depth reclaims what life can mean,
and stays with us when we are there.
A clock measures duration, but depth counts time.
Not every lovestory have happy ending.
I mean just look at us .
One is happy with someone .
One is drowing in the tears .
I hate how I still had your effect.
I hate how my heart beats fast .
I hate how my eyes search you in crowd.
I hate all of me how I crave for you .
Yet I love all of this moments ,
How I feel every time .
Never confessed yet feels like we did .
Never loved yet feels like we fell .
I'm still confused thinking about us .
Whether I take your actions wrong?
Or I just got betrayed?
Have a lot to ask . What? Why? Why me?
But asusual, whenever I speak to you ,
My chest pains , my throat hurts , and my tounge?
Like it never talked to you .
Yet looking for a chance to pour my heart .
Scared Mary,
Unprepared Mary,
Incomprehensible yet strangely legible,
Outside of the box in isolation Mary.
New Mary,
Old Mary,
Realities are a kaleidoscope,
Always big vision and big picture seeing Mary.
Spontaneous Mary,
Boring Mary,
Gifted the role of everything and nothing,
Multidimensional experience Mary.
Cyclical Mary,
Unpredictable Mary,
Goggles ethereal with physical on the side,
So strange and unable to be normal Mary.
Selfless Mary,
Selfish Mary,
Fiercely loving and Protective to a fault,
Contradictory and human at best Mary.
Celibate Mary,
Desperate Mary,
A Biological Divine combination,
Big impact but small blip in wider space Mary.
Seasons change,
And we rearrange
Our lives, passing by
Like the howling winds that cry.
Today we are,
But tomorrow by far -
We are not the same,
As we find ourselves in another frame!
The grass withers,
The flowers fade,
The road bends,
And life ends
On this transient earth -
Is life worth it?
04.08.2021
Copyright © 2021 by Crystal David John
Unseen
Tears shed often,
Measures the depth of grief,
So profound the ache, it grips you
Within.
Copyright © 2026 by Crystal David John
Your message arrives at midnight.
A green phone lights in the dark
from a submarine at periscope depth.
-------------------
-------------------
You ask how
I've been.
You tell me
it's raining
on the train
you're taking
to ride home.
Just thought
I would give
you a ring.
Is now a good
time for you?
How are you?
Is all OK?
Nothing urgent
Nothing wrong
just wanted
to touch base.
-------------------
A long pause,
someone laughs,
a cough nearby
tracks clatter
a horn sounds
like a sonar
ping echo
Down scope!
They're gone
What's left? A dial tone ... hmm hum.
I wish I could put the river to rest
Its tides tend to disturb me
I get afraid when it ripples and bends
Under the moonlight, keeping me awake
Making me a fisherman,
As I fish for thoughts
Thoughts that can put me to sleep,
And I can rest in the river's depth
I am so out of my depth
In this world of technology
The life l knew, loved and understood
Now, just a distant memory
The days when television only had a few channels
Channel change required getting up and turning a knob
Disagreeing regularly with others whos turn it was to do so
Each claiming ‘l did it last time it’s not just my job!’
Days when developing photos was simple
You used a camera with a reel inside
When the reel was finished you took it into a chemist
Matt or gloss the only choice you had to decide
When all was not electronic
Car windows were wound down by hand
Accessing cash from your bank account
A walk in ,with your bank passport….easy to understand
Its all computers , technology and passwords now
No longer phones that “only called” and were attached to a wall
Cash was the general currency
Now , its abundant plastic cards for everything and all
Apps ,banking, payments, signatures, shopping and so forth
All accessible and done online from ones home
Clouds that do not belong in the sky
Lives functioned and lived through ….a computer or mobile phone!
Do not kiss my scars.
They run deep—
deeper than any thought you have ever devised.
To you, words are only words,
and perhaps that is why I see you as nothing.
Because to you, I imagine,
nothing is merely nothing.
I could recite the entirety of my soul,
lay every wound before you,
and you would hear only words.
Perhaps that is why I do not trust you.
If words are only words,
and nothing is only nothing,
then your words, to me,
are nothing at all.
The journey of the hero
Is both in and out simultaneously
As above so below
Since the nature of reality
Is its nonduality
Everything has a light
And everything a shadow
How could it be otherwise
As we occupy this space
With presence
Dreaming always dreaming
We spin our tales
Weaving a web to catch what?
A glimpse of something divine
The wick our candle burns around
The spark that ignites our consciousness
A something that is no thing
Before there was a Self to seek
The hero’s journey is out and in
There and back again
A mind forever questing
A grail made holy
By the quest
The mystery of manifestation
Made manifest
Sun made flesh and fiber
You could say
And in so doing
Once again simply
Miss the mark
(6/6/26)
Oh, to be like the sea,
Transcending borders meant to tame me,
Powerful, free, and with immense depth,
Comforting and bringing smiles to those who wept.
To flirt with the sky,
Turning into hues of purple and blue.
To be unpredictable,
To be beyond anyone’s clue.
To be far from reach,
During nights turned grey and dreich.
To be able to lure seafarers,
To be an able life-bearer.
To be still, to be turbulent,
To be somber, to be benevolent.
To be the book of the stories that rivers carry,
To look identical to oceans, yet in every drop to vary.
I sit across the shore and sea, and I talk,
Sand sticking to my legs as I walk.
I look at its happiness when it pulls away,
Like a bird meant forever to be astray.
And again, all I desire is to be the sea,
From the shackles of perfection to be free.
Powerful, untamable, with immense depth,
To be comfort to all those who have wept.
So, I realize,
As the sea reflects the skies,
The sea is me, and I am the sea
The sea is she, addicted to being free.
Oh, I am so much like the sea,
Wanting to transcend borders meant to tame me,
Deep with immense depth,
Trying to bring smiles to all those who wept.
Poetry is seriousness
Poetry is just good fun
It is depth and emptiness
Shared with all and none
Poetry can make your mind
Slightly elevated
Poetry annoys that’s why
Many people hate it
The majority might look
For detective stories
Or non-fiction kind of book
Telling global worries
Stealthily the evening’s in
Fades the light of day
The clock hands rev up their spin
What I’m left to say?
What is Poetry, who knows
I don’t have a clue
It just comes and then it goes
Like a friend might do.
I’m not like most people:
no, not at all.
I do not belong here,
this valley of pearls.
These
oceans of depth,
despite shallow world.
Mountains are men,
or is it reverse?
I’ve traveled far
and I’ve traveled wide
(mostly in words).
I’ve been a Victorian gentleman,
a Renaissance knight.
Despite all,
despite all,
I do not belong here:
no, not at all.
Not at all.
My soul is like a dark room in an abandoned house, where phantom piano keys still dance in the air. Where cracked and broken windows send whispering chills down your spine, yet welcome bird nests on dusty bookshelves. There’s foliage from thunderstorms that scatter on cashmere sheets where ghosts of lovers still lay & hazed mirrors on the wall that still ache for presence.
The day after my suicide,
I fell in love with the woman
whose photograph I keep on
my nightstand.
The day after my suicide,
I forgave my father
for everything he was
and everything he
failed to be.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my mother beyond
her addictions and for the
broken little girl I was always
too angry to picture her
of being.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my dog and I appreciated
the way she ran through the yard
so freely.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my brother and we
were throwing rocks down
by the creek.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my sister and she
was teaching me how to
fix the chain on my
bicycle.
The day after my suicide,
I pictured Van Gogh laying
in that field of sunflowers with
his guts spilling out and I wondered
if in that moment he viewed himself
as artistic or driven.
The day after my suicide,
I realized that none of that
really mattered.
Because the day after my suicide,
I saw myself for the very first time.
And I loved myself unconditionally.
And I wished. Oh, how I wished
that I could have waited. Just one
more day.
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