Even though we have already heard your last murmur.
It is not until tonight that we will truly be stricken.
We would ask for your unmedicated spirit-
To pounce on us at night.
And dance on us as if you are in a meadow of your choosing.
Waking us with not a start-
But the compulsion to look up a photo of you.
So that starlit tears cover our faces.
Even though we have already heard your last murmur.
It is not until tomorrow-
That the sunrise turns you eternal.
Little about me...
Severe depression, Anxiety not to mention PTSD
Recently diagnosed, unmedicated
At times I feel obliterated
Though I hope to cope and not to croak...
Basically to provoke
Longevity with no strife for
This a beautiful life...
Indeed.
symptom spectrum script
dosing who knows what roulette
will too strong to live
***
the tiniest sliver of a moon hangs distant
yet its faded heart long gone
it too abandons me tonight
i buried you today
how can i face returning to an empty home
though somehow i’ll have to come to terms
but this night’s for tears freeflowing
and unmedicated throbbing ache left raw
for release of what’s built up inside
the hurt the bitterness the anger
let go of what i can
deep down to the roots of my solitude
haunting gregorian chants fill my head
till finally i’m intoxicated
on visions of nostalgia and reverie
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on June 3, 2018 for contest FREE VERSE ONLY - PICK A THEME sponsored by LAURA LOO - RANKED 1ST
It's eleven: I drag myself out of bed.
It's noon: I write a note.
It's one: I buy some pills
It's two: I buy some daffodils
It's three: I want to be buried with them
It's four: I want to be cremated.
It's five: I'm in Central Park. I'm on a bench, I'm crying.
It's six: I'm freezing, I cry some more. It's obvious, I'm dying
It's seven: I think
It's eight: I laugh
It's nine: I'm florid -- I'm exuberant.
It's ten: I write a manuscript,
It's eleven: I try to burn it.
It's midnight: And I'm wide awake
It's one: And I'm out cold.
My brain is like a shaken snow globe with
My sanity as unsettled as the flakes.
But in my mind, and in my soul,
Gravity has slowed.
She devoted her time to poetry and blogs
Addressing his many nonexistent flaws
As if his was the family, being neglected
While she refused to address his rejection
And became something too sad to even mock
You see, Dawn had succumbed to her invective
Unmedicated and overprotective
But of all the wrong things -
The lies about herself she struggled to maintain
And an impossible dream objective
And so, Dawn rots away
Her own twisted mind's slave
Spending time on a man who will never love her
Of whose affections, she is quite sure
While the ones who do care about her are estranged
She thinks only of herself
And ignores her child's wails
Mocks her husband's needs
She is the epitome of greed
And of failing mental health
Her words against him are an inner reflection
Of the emptiness that has become her own life's direction
She gets more repulsive as she pines away
And her husband is tempted to stray
But she thinks he is a fool to her deception
And most of us caught in her narrative live on
While she babbles like a moron
Taking her hate and lies wherever she can
To try and further convict an innocent man
Oh, what a sad old witch, that Dawn!
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