To my friend, who is still my friend; she inferred that poems are supposed to rhyme.
My dear friend there is no crime
if my poems do not rhyme.
Amazed that I am able to write
most is done to the dead of night.
I sit and think as words do flow
deep within; inside my soul.
The lessons of life I will share
my poems show how much I care.
All sorts of subjects I will try
they can be sad and make you cry.
This rhyming ditty is at an end
before it drives me round the bend.
Just one more thing: a final thought
a fitting ending I have sought.
We both know what rhymes with rhyme
there is but one possibility: yes its wine.
Depression is often a taboo subject, where understanding is very thin on the ground. It is an illness; not a weakness. Many of those suffering; do so alone.
Even in brightness I cannot see
clouds of dark fog blankets my mind
accompanied by abstruse thoughts
only an opaque expression, motionless
an invisible shield that reflects radiance.
I sink deeper my mind controls me
functioning, without having to think
a living death; without day or night
will it possible to climb into the light
to gain momentum, touch the air.
I bathe in a concoction of chemicals
allowing my mind to drift on memories
the contentment vaporising the gloom
a falseness of the induced state
bringing respite but never peace.
Slowly my mind regains breath
consciousness flows into veins
tossing aside drugged driftwood
supported by nothing but my will
I touch daylight as it touches me.
The best circumstance, so peaceful
disrupted by overcast nervousness
fretting for what paths may lay ahead
unable to evade the bleeding thoughts
scarred, patched up: never repaired.
Savour the strength of translucent spirit
the wind may change; yes, there is hope.
I have learnt an awful lot from total strangers over the years. This subject has bought some of the most heartfelt conversations.
We care for those who once cared for us
nurtured, loved and kept safe from harm.
Tides turn leaving us the task we dread,
never fully understanding why this should be.
Looking in a mirror; the image reversed
clouding the cherished memories: broken.
Nothing prepares for causing distress,
unwittingly removing their dignity.
We see in them what we once were,
brings unbearable pain; a mental anguish.
United in our silent screams, both lost
waiting for the end; the final release,
not wanting that event to actually arrive.
The unknown is hard to endure,
but we willingly jump into that mirror,
nursing those whose life ebbs away;
unrecognised by them; just strangers,
often fighting for them to remember
instead of accepting who they became.
We give all that we can as time ticks on
we can make these moments precious.
Stop fighting the current: ride the waves.
reflection of the past will give solace
remember the present: it gives strength.
This was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend, who was struggling to understand why her marriage of thirty years had ended.
Where have you gone? I really don’t know
you are here with me but I’m so alone
failing to hear you when you speak
uninterested with any point or purpose.
When did our future become our past?
Is the past where we are destined to live?
the rut we fell into, suffocates our being
love is unable to breathe, choking us both.
Passion replaced by never-ending silences
happiness and joy, no longer desired
intimacy, a distant memory: never craved
we share only this pointless existence.
We shoulder blame for not being as one
aimlessly adrift, existing, not living
either unable or unwilling to change
the option to part is the option to live.