melancholy

poem: i am

– Written as an exercise during a writing workshop on self and metaphor

I am a deluge –
Erupting suddenly from within
Floods that bypass my parched throat.
I cover everything and pull it under,
Drowning everything in grief tears.
I am over-saturated, spilling
Untidily into other peoples’ lives.
I am a deluge.

,,,

I am a bellyful of hope –
My waters ebb and flow.
I host abundant life in my womb;
I hold secrets only dreamers know.
I have colours you’ve never seen,
I glisten and glean in the sun.
I am a bellyful of hope.

poem: tangled

sometimes, when you’re angry, 
what you really are is hurt…
and disappointed,
and sad,
and confused. 
but it’s easier to claim the anger;
because the other stuff 
is a tangled ball of yarn, 
and it’s tidier
to shut it away 
In an old shoebox 
and promise yourself 
you’ll find the end of it 
and untangle it
one day… 
when you have more time,
and patience, 
and distance 
between you and the person 
who broke your heart. 
but you know it’s a lie –
the truth is, 
that day never comes, 
and all of our closets burst
with shoebox coffins
for string so knotted and frayed
that it will never again 
be useful 
to anyone.

poem: a song for the broken

– TW: Depression, Su*cidal Ideation

I am tired of the roller-coaster
Tired of not being able to walk away
I’m tired of self-perpetuating cycles
Tired of this feeling of certainty
That I am stuck here in this place
Until it kills me.
It is not my job to save anyone
When I can’t even save myself
From myself.

I want so much to be seen as worthy of love…
But excuses run dry –
And then there is only the silence.
That speaks more loudly and clearly
Than any excuses ever could.

I diminish until there’s nothing left… I become
The shadow of potential…
As a nihilist I know that nothing matters,
But as an optimist I long for moments –
Moments that sparkle and shine amongst the nothingness.

Also… I am drunk.
But life is better pondered in an inebriated state.
So hats off to Dylan Thomas,
And give my regards to Sylvia Plath
(alath, alath, poor Sylvia Plath,
she put her head in the oven and turned on the gath)
Tomorrow is a brand new day.

poem: epitaph

And so here I am at that time of day
Where I am alone in my head with my thoughts…

Finally free.

Never was there a more fitting epitaph
Let that be written on the certificate of death
When they come to take my empty shell away
Do not say “She died of a broken heart”
That is far too romantic for a melancholic solitary thing like me.
Instead let them only say,

“Finally free.”

poem: i need a church

I need a church
I need to find a priest to hear my confession
I need redemption
Before I give in to the temptation of self

Forced to face the reflection of the past
I reach out to touch, and smash the glass
My wrists are slashed and I bleed
The pain is familiar and leads me back to myself

There’s no escape – I am who I am
There’s no reconciliation for the sins of the damned
Just that feeling of being in the other side if the glass looking in…
Heaven turns her back on those who condemn themselves.

poem: when I was a girl

When I was a girl,
I dreamed pink faery floss dreams
Now my world is ash
And cigarette smoke
Permeates the air

When I was a child
Unicorns danced on my bed;
Now they are replaced
By sweaty, sex-stained men
Who do not know the unicorns were ever there

When I was young and innocent
I ate rainbow-flavoured sno-cones
Now my belly if full of bitterness,
I’m pregnant with desire,
And I give birth to sadness…
Yet again.